


Quest for a Cure

by Ginger_kitty



Series: Worlds Enough and Time [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental overdose, Chantry explosion, Deep Roads (Dragon Age), F/F, F/M, Forgiveness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, M/M, Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Multi, Old Gods (Dragon Age), Redemption, concurrent with Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_kitty/pseuds/Ginger_kitty
Summary: Rhiannon Cousland, Queen and Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, will stop at nothing to protect those she loves.  On a mission to save her people languishing in Kirkwall she discovers that Anders is not only alive but is at the centre of a devastating plan to free mages across Thedas.  Saving him is only the beginning, when the False Calling begins she and Anders will set out to save themselves and the last of Ferelden's Grey Wardens.  But while they search for a cure, an ancient evil has awoken and begun to spread across Thedas, threatening more than just the Wardens.  The answer to both problems is the same and Rhiannon and Anders must find the last of the Old Gods before reality itself is destroyed.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Anders/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Anders/Female Hawke, Bethany Hawke/Nathaniel Howe
Series: Worlds Enough and Time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873099
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally started as Nothing Else Matter, but various things bothered me so I have not quite begun again but edited and republished.

Anders sat on a random crate, facing away from them all, feeling strangely serene. For the moment both he and Justice were at peace, possibly for the first time since they had joined and fled the wardens for this vicious, blood-soaked city that had become both home and torment. He had placed the explosives carefully; one in the room where Karl had come back to him for just a moment, where he had begged Anders for death, where his blood had covered Anders hands and soaked into his robes; one on the opposite side, where he had helped Hawke destroy a tome of blood magic, emblazoned with the sunburst of the Chantry on its cover; one before the statue of Andraste, where Petrice had sacrificed Seamus Dumar to her obsession with the Qunari, where Elthina had dared to preach peace while allowing Meredith Stannard to abuse and murder innocents in her paranoia. The only magic involved was the trigger, a spell set to ignite from afar, setting off all three simultaneously and destroying the root of all evil in this Maker-forsaken hellhole. He ignored the frantic arguments taking place behind him, knowing that it would all come down to one choice, knowing there was only one answer for his betrayal. That knowledge gave him peace, soon it would be over, his blood would be given to pay for the lives he had taken today, but the die had been cast and the world would change, in one way or the other. And no matter what happened to him, Hawke would do the right thing, she would defend the mages from Meredith, she would rally Kirkwall behind it’s Champion, and the whole world would change.

He knew it when she moved behind him, so attuned to her after all these years. There had been few true loves in his life - Karl, Neria, Nate, Reina, Mari - and only Mari was here at the end.

“There’s nothing you can say I haven’t already said to myself.” He spoke gently, knowing the bloodshed that had been, the bloodshed to come, would weigh on her far less than his betrayal. “Vengeance took me over. I couldn’t stop him. Justice once told me that demons are just spirits perverted by their desires. I made my friend a demon - and he did this.” He ignored Sebastian’s demented mutterings, if he could summon the energy to care he would only be sorry that the sanctimonious bastard had not been at his beloved Elthina’s side when the Chantry exploded. He spoke only to Mari, his love, the one shining light in this corrupted city. “Kill me now, before there’s nothing left of me.”

“I know you would have changed it if you could.” He loved her sweet voice, though it was filled with pain.

“But I have proven I cannot.” He had destroyed his friend, destroyed himself, wrecked body and mind until there was nothing left. “If I couldn’t control Vengeance now, I never will. I need to die” For a moment there was fear, fear that she would forgive him, fear that he would have to live with what he had done, with a price he could never repay, but above all fear that he had broken Mari Hawke when nothing else could, not the Blight, not discovering her father was a blood mage, not even losing her family one by one.

“Whatever you do, just do it.”

“You have to pay for what you’ve done.” Relief. It is almost at an end.

“I know. You should have done this long ago.” Before he could corrupt his friend, before he had ruined everything he touched. Before Vengeance led him to destroy life with the hands that had been dedicated to saving it.

He felt the knife enter his back, sharp pain cutting through the ache in his heart, warm blood seeping down under the coat he had dyed black, soaking into the thin shirt underneath. He felt Justice, or Vengeance, released, fading away as he faded himself, barely feeling the ground as he collapsed, not hearing the clicking of her heeled boots as Marian Hawke walked away to fight for the mages before Kirkwall and the world.


	2. Sleight of Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While King Alistair tries to play nice with Meredith, his Queen is working on another way to get their people out of Kirkwall when she discovers one of her own is in danger. Saving Anders will take planning, and a few favours along the way.

Kirkwall was a grim, grey city, the massive granite walls and palaces of Hightown looming over the huddled slums of Lowtown. As the  _ Royal Griffon _ sailed between the hulking statues known as The Twins, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, felt a twist of guilt and shame at the thought of the hundreds of his citizens crammed into this unforgiving place, fleeing ahead of the Blight only to live in squalor. Tall and golden, Alistair looked every inch the king but right now he wished he was still only a simple Grey Warden, spending his days fighting with sword and shield instead of words. He was here to discuss repatriating the Fereldan refugees but it would be a slow process, slower no doubt than the rulers of Kirkwall would be happy with. He noticed Teagan appearing up on deck and sighed, wishing once again it was his wife who would be standing beside him against the supposedly formidable (and possibly psychotic) Knight Commander. But Rhi had business elsewhere and Eamon was holding the fort in Denerim. Truthfully, he enjoyed the time he spent with his uncle, at least he wouldn’t completely drown in formality while he was here, but he missed the wife he hadn’t seen for weeks. He would miss her even more at the infernal balls and teas and meetings that were scheduled for the next two weeks. Even after six years under her tutelage, Alistair was prone to slip-ups at social events. Formal meetings, the matters of state, those had become second nature, but he despised the vagaries of The Game and Rhi was a mistress of it, saving him from blunders at these things before he even knew he was going to make them. Teagan was no replacement for his amazing, duplicitous Queen.

“There’s an undercity too,” said Teagan quietly, just as depressed by the fortress city as Alistair. “From all accounts that’s where the majority of the refugees live, in the sewers among the scum of gangs and slavers.”

Alistair sighed. “I wish we could just move them all back. Send a fleet. We have one of those, don’t we? Pick them all up at once and move them back.”

“To where, Alistair?” His uncle was always the voice of reason, unfortunately. “Most of them come from lands that are still blighted. The Queen opened up Amaranthine when she cleared the Blackmarsh, and most of the North is all but back on its feet but from the Hinterlands across to the Brecilian forest still can’t support all these people. And that’s not counting the ones spread across the rest of the Marches.”

“The rest of the Marcher lords have made more efforts at integration, they spread people out into the countryside. It’s Kirkwall that holds the majority, and Kirkwall where they live in squalor. They won’t all want to come back but this is the fifth year we’ve had famine in the south, the country is bankrupt and we haven’t enough people to till what fields there are. I would have thought the Knight Commander or whoever is running this place would have been glad enough to get rid of them, even in the small numbers we can cope with, but between dock fees and blasted paperwork it’s been impossible.” Alistair hated formalities, especially ones that made no sense. The exorbitant fees for the papers Kirkwall required before anyone could do almost anything in the city, meant most of the refugees must be eking out an existence on the edges of legality. Insisting on those same papers and extra fees for leaving the city that never wanted them in the first place was insanity. Yet in all their correspondence with the Seneschal that point had never faltered, the refugees who had no papers, who lived in filthy corners in forgotten alleys, these people did not exist, and if they did not exist they could not be repatriated. This was a last ditch attempt at diplomacy, at allowing the refugees to return home in a controlled manner. But while he played his part in Hightown, other options were being negotiated in far less salubrious surroundings, one way or another the monarchs of Ferelden were determined to get their people out of Kirkwall.

\------

It was well after midnight when Marian Hawke untangled herself from her lover’s arms and crept out of her bedroom. After a day spent fighting a high dragon they were both tired but Anders had then spent hours putting them all back together. Fenris had been the worst, the dragon had thrown him against a cliff and he had fallen twenty feet onto one of the piles of rubble that lay about the Bone Pit and after healing what he could and ordering the elf to bed rest until further notice, it was unlikely Anders would wake until late morning. He was used to her coming and going at all hours but she would rather not worry him and what she was about to do would absolutely worry him.

It would worry her too, a private meeting in one of the Carta’s hidden lairs, with instructions to ‘come alone’. She wasn’t a fool, if the note had been signed by anyone else she would have had people waiting in the wings. But beside the name ‘Magda Cadash’ was a sigil that only one other living person knew. For whatever reason, Bethany was in Kirkwall and wanted to meet her.

The ‘lair’ turned out to be a well kept house at the upper end of Lowtown, owned by a dwarven artisan. Edric Saldras crafted beautiful ceramic ornaments that were collected by Kirkwall’s nobility, Hawke had bought her own mother one when they regained the Amell estate. His wife, Magda, was a sweet woman who couldn't haggle to save her life. Except that apparently she was a Cadash which made her about as high up in the Carta as anyone could be and as sweet and innocent as a deepstalker. It was a dangerous secret for her to know but still Bethany's mark stopped her leaving to get back-up. 

The dwarf who answered the door looked completely unsurprised to be welcoming the Champion of Kirkwall at three in the morning as she showed her through to the parlour. Edric offered her a drink while Magda filled a plate with pastries, welcoming her to their home as if it were a mid-morning courtesy visit. She sat in the proffered armchair and accepted the refreshments without taking her eyes off the three Grey Wardens sitting across the room. 

Beth looked different. Her hair was short, framing a face that had lost all remaining traces of childhood. Instead of the mail she used to wear, she was dressed in leather armour dyed blue and silver with a pendant at her throat that glistened red. She looked better than she had a few weeks ago, but still thin and tired, with grief heavy in her eyes. She leaned against a tall, dark-haired man Hawke recognised. They had gone into the Deep Roads to rescue him and found Bethany too. Howe, like the traitor lord who murdered the Couslands during the Blight, but she couldn’t remember his first name. She had her suspicions at the time but seeing how close they sat, how Beth leaned into the man, told her everything she needed to know and she gave Howe a look that should do the same for him. Of course, Bethany noticed and rolled her eyes before whispering something in Howe's ear and giggling. 

The third member of the team was the one in charge. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, eyeing Hawke over a cup that smelt deliciously bitter. Saldras must be making a mint, or his wife was, if they could import Antivan coffee and they must be desperate to earn this woman’s approval. She was of average height and slim and her wine red hair and green eyes that set off a heart-shaped face and bee-stung lips told Hawke exactly who sat before her. After all, Anders had described his Commander often enough. 

"Your Highness," Hawke inclined her head, resisting the urge to kneel before the Hero of Ferelden. "Or do you prefer Commander?" Every Fereldan idolised this woman, Anders practically worshipped her. But sneaking into the city using the Carta when her husband was already here on a diplomatic mission was more than suspicious and Hawke preferred to reserve judgement for the moment. 

"Champion." She nodded and smiled and Hawke was struck by how light and young her voice sounded. "Under these circumstances I would prefer Rhiannon, as I'm not here in any official, or indeed legal, capacity." The Queen set her cup to the side and glanced fondly at Bethany and her friend. "First and foremost, I wanted to thank you for saving Bethany and Nathaniel. The First Warden overruled me about that mission and I nearly lost one of my oldest friends, and one of my newest." Bethany flushed to hear herself described as a friend of the Hero and Nathaniel squeezed her hand in reassurance.

"No thanks are required, High…Rhiannon." Hawke stumbled a little over the informality. Nathaniel, that was it, Anders had called him Nate and told her they had a thing, once upon a time. But then, Anders had apparently slept his way across Ferelden, once upon a time, so that wasn't a big deal. 

"Not required, maybe, but very gratefully given. Now, it's important no one else knows I'm here. While my darling husband is attempting to reason with Kirkwall's bureaucracy, I'm making arrangements to start smuggling our refugees back to Ferelden. Only a few at a time to begin with, but Magda informs me that your resources would be very valuable in this. Apart from anything else, I'm willing to donate a ship to your friend, Isabela, and fund the Darktown healer." Hawke started a little at that. Did she know the healer was her missing warden? She glanced at Bethany but her sister's face was completely blank. She wouldn't give Anders away but what about Howe, his ex-lover. He knew Anders was here, knew he was living with Hawke, would he report the errant mage to their superior? She pulled her attention back to Rhiannon who was looking at her with a knowing glint in her eyes. 

“An incompetent fool lost something of mine a few years ago. I believe it made its way into your very competent care. I appreciate that, more than you know.” Her face hardened. “I’d also appreciate it if you made your friend aware that the fool has been dealt with - permanently.” So the replacement who had forced Anders to give up his cat, set templars on him and made him desperate enough to join with Justice was dead. Good. She had intended to track him down once Stannard was dealt with, this saved her the trip. She pulled her attention back as Rhiannon turned to speak to her hosts.

“I’m very grateful for your assistance in this matter. Perhaps you could go over the details with Nathaniel while Bethany and I catch up with the Champion about some old friends. Do you have another room we could go to? I wouldn’t want to disturb the negotiations with girlish gossip.” She gave them a charming smile and they both immediately protested uprooting the queen.

“Not at all, your highness,” Magda was firm, tilting her head at her husband in a secret communication. “We can continue our business with Lord Howe in the study. Please, rest and help yourself to the pastries. There is more coffee in the pot, but simply ring the bell if you need anything.” With very little bustle the three women were left alone.

The change in the Commander was immediate. She relaxed into the armchair and the smile she gave Bethany was sweet, the smile of a friend, not a queen. Beth moved immediately to give her sister a tight hug and Hawke noted the firm muscles under the armour. Her sister had never been soft, not as Circle mages were, but now she was hard, baby fat all gone, forged anew in the Deep Roads and it made Hawke sad that she hadn’t been able to give her sister the life of idle luxury she deserved. Feeling the change in tension, Bethany drew back and pinched her, drawing a startled yelp from the Champion that made the two wardens giggle.

“Stop that, Mari. I don't know what you’re moping about this time but just stop it."

"I was just thinking how much I missed you," Hawke grumbled, "But now I can't remember why." 

"Well sit with me and tell me everything I've missed. I want all the details." Bethany's smile became just a little smug. "Especially about Anders." 

Hawke looked over at Rhiannon suspiciously and the woman giggled. 

"Please don't hold back any details on my account," she said, picking at a layered honey pastry Hawke recognised as baklava. "Anders' exploits were legendary, even among the Wardens and we tend to be a very close-knit bunch." Beth twitched at that comment and Rhiannon smirked. "Although I'm more interested in how he ended up being this mysterious Darktown healer. We've been filtering money to him for years, what we could afford to send to Lirene. Not as much as we wanted but Ferelden is bankrupt. But no one ever told us it was Anders, until you saved Nate. Not even Bethany." The last was said with a frown and Bethany wriggled uncomfortably. It was such a familiar movement, Carver had done it as well, that little wriggle when they were taken to task, Hawke could have cried at all the memories it brought back. But Rhiannon was still talking so she tried to pay attention.

“It turns out my missing mage, who was almost a caricature of a selfish hedonist, is living in a sewer, running a free clinic and saving mages in his spare time.” Her smile turned almost sad. “Perhaps the conversations he used to have with Justice made more of an impression than he let on.” Hawke couldn’t help it, she flinched at the mention of Justice and though she tried to hide it, the shrewd rogue noticed. “He has told you about Justice, I assume? He was a Spirit who was trapped in the corpse of a warden. Justice berated Anders for his laziness and his selfishness, I stopped taking them on missions together so I didn’t have to listen to it, but they did become close friends.” Rhiannon pursed her lips at the blank faces both Hawkes presented her, her mind racing to put together pieces until she slammed her cup on the table and stood to pace the room in frustration. When she spoke her voice was far less sweet than before.

“Fucking, bastarding… I’ll fucking kill Howe when he gets back in here. Fucking dickhead archers and brainless fucking mages and…” She turned to face Bethany. “You knew! You knew he was possessed and you never told me. How could you, Bethany?”

“Rhi, I’m sorry. It... it wasn’t my story to tell.” Bethany wrung her hands as she shuffled in place, leaning towards her Commander as if she wanted to go to her but staying back and letting the woman vent her ire. “I don’t think Nate knows, how could he?”

“He might not know, but it was his fucking suggestion for Justice to share a living body. I should have known when they both disappeared, I assumed Kristoff’s corpse gave out in the fight and he went back to the Fade. I’ll kill him, I’ll kill both of them. And then I’ll find a way to get into the Fade so I can kill them both again.” Hawke was taken aback at the tears pouring down the woman’s face, then again when her sister drew the Commander into her arms, whispering soothing nothings and stroking the red hair. Eventually Rhiannon straightened slightly, looking at Beth as she said,

“I thought he was dead, Beth. I thought the bastard templars got him and Justice both. I didn’t protect them like I promised, because I was too busy in Denerim being queen and he didn’t come to me, he came here to live in a sewer. He ran again and I just thought he was dead instead of trying to find him.”

“Shhh, sweetheart. You didn’t know. I should have told you, I’m so sorry. You did nothing wrong.” Beth looked up as Howe entered the room, closing it tightly behind him. “Where are they?”

“In the study,” he said, taking over from Bethany and giving her a soft kiss on her cheek. “What happened?”

“I don’t really know. She just, we were talking about Anders and Justice and how they merged and…”

Howe interrupted, “Merged? Anders and Justice merged? Fuck.” He looked down at the woman in his arms who was now glaring up at him although she hadn’t rejected his embrace.

“Merged, Nate. As in ‘hey Justice, why don’t you try inhabiting a live body’ merged, you fucking arsehole. So hey, Anders and Justice are an abomination.” She went from leaning into his hug from battering on his chest. “And why are they an abomination? Because I fucked off to Denerim to play Queen and that piece of shit Orlesian set templars on him.”

Hawke had to cut in. “Hey, HEY!” The three turned to look at her, Rhiannon and Nate blinking as if they had completely forgotten her existence. She was angry and somehow defensive at their response. She knew Anders had a history with Howe, knew he had a crush on the Commander, but somehow with them in front of her it all seemed a little personal. And when Hawke felt defensive, she tended to get aggressive.

“Anders is not an abomination.” She held up her hand as Howe opened his mouth. “He’s not, Justice helps him, they help people together. I’ve seen abominations, Anders isn’t it! If he became an abomination, I’d kill him. I promised him.” The queen pushed the archer away and turned to her, breath still hitching, face twisted with scorn.

“Stupid girl,” she said, ignoring the fact that Hawke was several years older than herself. “Do you have any idea the stress hosting a spirit has on a body, using that spirit’s powers. And that’s without knowing how the taint could affect Justice. Anders is in his thirties, tell me, does he look it?”

She considered the words. Anders was thin, skinny even, although he looked better since moving in with her, but the lines on his face from a lifetime of living on the run, working himself to the bone, had left him looking at least a decade older. But according to this woman her selfless healer had been anything but only five years before.

Rhiannon continued, “One of my friends, a mage who travelled with me during the Blight, she had a spirit in her, it… well it kept her alive after she technically died, but at a price. Sometimes she would just collapse, and her personality changed. The last time I saw her she was… different. Faith was starting to consume her…” She sighed. “I can’t really explain. She’s just different.”

Hawke nodded. She knew what she meant. She had met Anders almost six years ago and he had changed. He didn’t even try to hide it, he had straight out told her that it was merging with Justice that did it. That was why he was trying to separate them, why they’d been fighting a high dragon the day after picking through shit in the sewers. She tried to explain about Anders’ potion, until she got to the ingredients, when Howe stopped her.

“Sela petrae and drakestone?” He said, sharing a glance with his Commander. “I’ve never heard of a potion like that. But I know I was sent for saltpetre and drakestone for Dworkin when he was trying to make  _ gaatlok _ .”

“ _ Gaatlok _ .” Hawke’s heart sank. They never found out who really got their hands on that recipe, but surely Anders… No, he had warned her repeatedly that he was no good for her, that he was dangerous, he had joked about destroying the city for her, what wouldn’t he do for the mages trapped in the Gallows. He wouldn’t tell her - plausible deniability - he would keep her out of it even when she had begged him to let her in, to let her be part of his mission. He had dangled the hope of being himself again before her so she would help him and he was going to blow up her city, kill innocent people, start a war, and then...what? Justice for mages would never be gained peacefully but justice for those innocents caught in his trap? Only his own life would be enough for Anders. “He’ll die.”

Rhiannon looked at her in sympathy. “What’s his target? The Gallows?” Hawke shook her head, thinking about the stop they had made at the Chantry, the last ditch attempt to convince Elthina to intervene while Anders, well, she didn’t know what Anders was doing but the odds were he was hiding  _ gaatlok _ . She would even lay bets on it being hidden in the room where he had been forced to kill Karl all those years ago.

“The Chantry,” she said. “There’s been so much turmoil it’s been all but empty for weeks, only the priests some days.” Sebastian, she would have to keep him beside her, keep him away from the Chantry and Elthina. This was what the Nightingale had been talking about all along, the danger.

“Can we stop him, Mari? Can we save them?” Bethany was distraught; sweet, gentle Bethany who might have been one of those abused mages in the Gallows if she hadn’t come on their treasure hunt, who would have been dead if Anders hadn’t found Stroud and his wardens. Bethany, who had been spared the scars that marked Anders' back, or the unseen scars on some of the mages she had helped smuggle out of Kirkwall, who had been safe from the Circle only through luck and hard work. What would she have been in that place? Quiet and pale, scuttling past the templars, hoping not to be noticed by the likes of Karras or Mettin or Alrik, maybe she would bear the sunburst scar and wander the courtyard unknowing and uncaring that her beautiful soul had been wiped out for being a gift of the Maker by those who were full of hate, envy and fear. Looking at her baby sister, Hawke made up her mind.

“No. There’s no way to stop it, I don’t even know where he might have put it except in the Chantry, it’s a big place. Beth, you don’t know how bad it’s got here. If it’s not Anders it will be something else. Meredith sent for the Right of Annulment, Elthina refused but she’s petitioned the Divine herself. Who knows what she’ll do, if she’ll even wait for the reply, she’s insane.” She took a deep breath and turned to Rhiannon. “I won’t let him die. I want your promise you’ll get him out, no matter what happens.”

Rhiannon nodded. “My husband has a meeting with Meredith Stannard tomorrow. You’ll get an invitation to meet him at the Viscount’s Keep, so he can congratulate a citizen of Ferelden for her achievements, of course. Keep Anders with you today and tomorrow. Alistair is leaving after the meeting, I’ve done everything I can and we arranged to meet in Highever as if I was never here. Let me be clear, Hawke, I want my husband out of the city before Anders sets off his explosives. Do that, and I think I can set everything else up to our advantage.”

There was nothing else Hawke could do, she agreed to distract Anders long enough for King Alistair to leave Kirkwall and the four of them sat down to lay out a plan.

\------

Alistair was exhausted after a fortnight of pointless politics, glad that he would be heading home tomorrow after one last fight with the Knight Commander. Zev had sent word that several mages had fled Kirkwall for Ferelden and Stannard had got wind of it. His courtesy meeting to say goodbye was going to be yet another headache from the woman he had definitely decided was beyond psychotic and practically drowning in paranoid delusions, not to mention the uncomfortable vibrations he felt in her presence, as if her very body was warping the song of the lyrium she took into something twisted and painful. The high point of tomorrow would certainly be the moment the  _ Griffon _ set sail.

He had declined a bath, asking only that a tray be left in his rooms, and he started stripping the moment the door closed behind him. A quick wash, an even quicker supper and then bed were the whole of his ambitions for the night. He was down to his breeches when something stopped him, something wasn’t right in his rooms, a sound, or a smell. He lifted his sword from the belt he had dropped, slowing his movements as he walked through the reception room into his bedroom.

“Why, husband, what a big knife you have? Are you happy to see me?” His wife lay on the bed, red hair spread out behind her, naked but for the Warden’s Oath she never took off, partner to his own. Alistair grinned, placing the sword on a stand before stripping off completely and sauntering over to the bed where he stood, hands on hips, looking down at the vision before him.

“You must be mistaken, my lady. My wife is safely visiting her brother in Highever, across the sea from here. I’m afraid you have the wrong bed.”

Rhiannon laughed and sat up, kneeling on the edge of the bed and running her hands over his chest, still packed with muscle in spite of the hours spent in his study or council room. “Well, my husband is supposed to be attending a ball held by the De Launcet’s this evening, so I suppose we will just have to amuse ourselves in the absence of our dearest darlings.” She drew him down into a kiss, then further down, pulling him over her and enjoying the feeling of his skin on hers.

He pulled back to look at her. “Fortunately, the ball was cancelled, something about a family emergency. Did you finish your business, Rhi?”

“I did, and then some. We have a lot to talk about and I need you to send an invitation to someone in the morning. I’ll tell you all about it. Later.”

“Later?” he smirked.

“Later.” she said firmly, and pulled him back down into her kiss.


	3. The Vanishing Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you get an unconscious terrorist through a city in chaos and past the Knight Captain himself?

Rhiannon watched from the shadows as Hawke stabbed Anders, ignoring her discussion with her friends, her argument with the warrior elf, her team heading towards the Gallows to protect the mages from Stannard’s insanity. Instead she watched the mage slump to the ground, blood soaking into the back of that black coat, trusting to the others to know when it was time to move. Anders had been one of her closest friends at Vigil’s Keep, he had saved Alistair and risked his own life to do it, and somehow he had ended up in this Maker-forsaken place, bleeding out on the ground while debris from an explosion he set landed across the city. After what seemed like an eternity, Bethany hissed, “Let’s go!” and the three of them sprinted across the square to the fallen man.

It was simple, Rhi fed him the antidote to the Quiet Death painted on Hawke’s blade, while Beth used her magic to heal him. The wound was deep, it had to look real to those in the square, but Hawke had skillfully missed any major organs or blood vessels. Once the wound was knitted, Beth placed a sleep spell on him. Between trauma and the lingering poison it was unlikely that he would wake before they reached the ship but no one was taking any chances. Nate bundled him in a large cloak and slung the mage over his shoulder. It meant he had only a dagger to defend himself but Rhi and Beth would make sure it wasn’t necessary. Unfortunately, when they finally turned to leave, they realised they were no longer alone.

“Fenris,” Beth pushed her way forward, lifting her hands to the elf. “This isn’t what it looks like. He was a Grey Warden, let us take his body, please.”

The elf took one of her hands in his and nodded. “I am not here to obstruct you, Bethany. I am here to help.”

Rhi looked at Nate who simply raised an eyebrow back and attempted to shrug past the dead weight on his shoulder. Fenris looked over at them. “Hawke asked me to make sure you made it to the ship. The streets are chaos and you are a man down. I know the shortest way to the docks.”

“Hawke asked you?” He nodded and Rhi pursed her lips. “So the fight you just had was staged? Who else knows?”

“The argument freed me to aid you. It would not surprise anyone for me to refuse to aid the mages, when I return to the Gallows I will have a miraculous change of heart - based entirely on Hawke’s persuasion of course.” He smiled, sadly, and she wondered if he had once wished to be Hawke’s chosen instead of Anders, but it disappeared and he was all business again. “Varric will spread the tale of how Hawke was forced to kill her true love, no doubt I will be the villain, or Sebastian, either way the Chantry will believe it, and Isabela has already readied the ship that will take Hawke and any of the others who wish so from Kirkwall. They are the only two who know, apart from myself. It would be unwise to tell the others. But we need to move, time will not stand by while you debate.”

She looked at Bethany, who nodded, and who hadn’t let the elf’s hand go, and said, “Let’s get on then. I want to be well away from here before the dust settles.”

“I’m not sure the dust from this will settle,” said Nate, shifting Anders once again before they set off after the elf. “Not anytime soon.”

\------

There was little resistance as they travelled through the city, although bodies of templars and the tell-tale ashes of defeated demons and abomination lay everywhere. The Right of Annulment, the explosion of the Chantry, had terrified mages in the city into extremes. Bethany had never realised how many apostates there must have been in Kirkwall, all of them isolated, terrified of exposing themselves to another for fear of the Gallows. How many of them had Anders known? How many had he tried to help? The templars were cutting down anyone who got in their way, inflamed to madness by the fears Meredith had exploited, screaming about mage sympathisers and abominations while bodies marked their paths. Some of the bodies were marked by swords, some by magic. Some of them were so small. It was like the Qunari uprising again, running through the streets on Warden business instead of defending the helpless, but this time she was actually rescuing the man who had triggered this. She felt complicit in every death, responsible for every body. They had known what would happen and let it, they had allowed Anders to trigger a war that would have no winners, and now they were spiriting him away from justice. She felt sick to her stomach. Only duty to her Commander kept her moving, until she saw a familiar figure blocking the way.

The Knight-Captain stood at the top of the steps down to the docks, to go the other way would take time they did not have. Cullen had seemed an upright man when they first met on the Wounded Coast, rigid in his beliefs but firm in his morality. But Hawke’s letters had painted the picture of a man more and more consumed by his superior’s madness, turning a blind eye to atrocities, righteous in himself but unwilling to hold others to the path of right, seeing blood mages in every corner. Privately Bethany had to admit that Kirkwall had more than its share of blood mages, but it was a vicious cycle of abuse and desperation which fueled more abuse. He hadn’t noticed them yet, but they could not get past him, certainly not with herself and Fenris present. She stopped Rhiannon with a hand to her shoulder.

“That templar,” she said, nodding in his direction. “That’s the Knight-Captain. He’ll recognise Fenris and I, we should go another way and meet you below. I don’t think he’ll stop you.

Rhiannon looked over at him and her eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Bethany startled. “You know him?”

“Yes.” Rhiannon stood straight, shifting her shoulders as if preparing for battle. “I’ll deal with him. You three get Anders to the ship. As soon as you’re aboard, set sail, no arguments, Nate. If I’m not on there with you, I’ll meet up with Bela and leave with Hawke. Give me a minute then go!”

She walked out of the alley purposefully, heading directly for Cullen who was still looking around him and hadn’t noticed her. When she was close enough she called, “Ser Templar,” and he turned round, distractedly.

“Yes, my lady? You should head home, the streets are not safe and…” He trailed off as he took in the silver and blue leathers, the familiar face with eyes like agates staring at him. He froze for a moment, then clattered to his knees, bowing his head. “Your Majesty, Queen Rhiannon, I didn’t know… I mean, your royal husband… I mean.” 

Rhiannon softened a little, looking at the man kneeling before her, seeing and hearing the boy he had been during the Blight. She had seen him twice since he had been freed from that cage, once when she returned to the Circle to gain their aid in saving Connor and again when he had been one of the templars assigned to escort Wynne to Denerim on one of her few visits. He had been transferred shortly after, but she had never known where, or thought to ask.

“Peace, Cullen.” She said, pulling him up from his knees. “I’m here on Warden business. My husband and his entourage think I’m in Highever.” She turned him slightly, as if helping him rebalance as he went from kneeling to standing in heavy plate. It was enough that she could watch her wardens and their strange associate head down the steps where Cullen could not see. She looked back up at him with a frown. “Why are you here?”

“I was stationed here, my Queen. I asked to be redeployed…”

“And Gregoir thought Kirkwall, the home of Mad Meredith and her obsession with blood mages was a good idea? I’d kick the man’s ashes if I knew where they were.” 

Cullen looked stricken. “Gregoir is dead?”

“Andraste’s tits, I’m sorry. He died a few months ago, peacefully in his sleep. Messages were sent.” Impulsively, she took his hand, just as she had after the cage dissolved. “Cullen, you should never have been here, you’re too good for this place.” He pulled back his hand and she flinched.

“You don’t know what it is like, your Highness. With all due respect, it is the Maker’s work we do. Look at the bodies in the streets if you don’t believe me, look at the crater where the Chantry once was.”

She stiffened, her voice cold as she said, “I have seen the bodies, there are more wounds from swords than magic. I’ve seen the scarred and sick mages who find their way to Amaranthine, desperate for sanctuary, I’ve even held the hands of girls not old enough to be Harrowed as they birthed babes born of rape, so don’t tell me about the Maker’s work.” She softened slightly. “I’ve also seen the discarded templars, used and forgotten, begging for lyrium when they can’t remember their own names. I’ve seen a sweet, broken young man turned into a tyrant by those who should have helped him heal.”

“But you have seen what they do, the result of mages over throwing the Circle. I did not just see it, I felt it, I lived it. I still live it, every day.”

Rhiannon shook her head sadly. “I spent most of a year traveling Ferelden trying to undo the damage one man did so we could fight a Blight. That man was not a mage, though he used them, manipulated them as he manipulated kings, queens, lords and the Chantry. He preyed on the weakness of the Circle, that those imprisoned without cause, those given not a moment's peace or privacy, those forbidden even the simple joys that the lowest peasant might know, can be led to almost anything to be free. And even then, there were more fought than submitted to Uldred, more who held to what was right even when they were tortured. You were one of them Cullen, the youngest of the captured and the only survivor, you held out against temptation where others fell and it was horrific. But you were caged and tortured for a few weeks. Your charges are imprisoned their entire lives. Anders,” he flinched at the name and her voice hardened again, “Anders spent a whole year in solitary, a year, Cullen, because he could not stand being imprisoned for being born.  _ ‘Foul and corrupt are they, Who have taken His gift, And turned it against His children.’ _ What does the Chantry do, but turn the gift of magic against the children who bear it, locking them up, teaching them nothing but fear and hatred of themselves and their captors?.” Time was passing, she had no more time to try to convince him before she would need to find wherever Bela had hidden her ship. 

“Please think, Cullen, truly think about what side you are on in this battle. You are a good man,  _ be _ a good man.” With that she turned and ran down the steps towards the docks, leaving the Knight-Captain behind her with confusion and doubt in his heart.

\------

_ The Champion was triumphant. Orsino and Meredith were both dead and the horrors of the Gallows were finally ended, but the city was in ruins and Hawke’s heart with it. Her lover was dead by her hand, at the urging of her closest friend. She returned to her empty mansion to await the coming days. _

_ Word of the slaughter spread quickly. The Champion’s name became a rallying cry; a reminder that the mighty templars could be defied. She had defended the mages against a brutal injustice and many lived to tell the tale. The circles rose up and set the world on fire. More Templars arrived at Kirkwall to restore order but we vanished into the hills and circumstance eventually forced us all to leave the champions side.  _

_ You still hear the stories of course, with each telling they grow even if at the core remains the truth. _


	4. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wakes with no magic and no idea where he is. Rhiannon is taking him home, but what awaits him once he gets there?

It was cold and there was constant, rocking movement. Gulls wailed somewhere above while canvas flapped and dull shouts filtered down. He was on a ship. He was sore, and empty, and he couldn’t remember why, but he knew the sounds because he had done this before, sometime, long ago. He shifted slightly and heard an answering shift in the room, someone else was here, but he wasn’t quite ready to find out who or why and it seemed they were content to let him be for the moment. He needed it. He knew he was on a ship, but he wasn’t sure who was on the ship, wasn’t sure who he was, what he was, why he was here? Inside him was an empty pit where he knew that information should be, along with something( _ someone _ ) else, something( _ someone _ ) that could answer the questions, but there was nothing( _ no one _ ) there and he had no answers. He shifted more, the aching soreness was becoming sharper, more like pain, centred on his back. He had no idea how long he had lain, searching inside for something that was missing, but something, some potion or spell, must be wearing off. He wriggled again and a cool hand touched his forehead lightly and murmured “Sleep” in a strange ( _ familiar _ ) gentle voice. His body relaxed immediately, his mind resisting long enough to whisper  _ ‘Bethany’  _ before it followed the whispered command and he sank once again into darkness.

When he woke again it was night. He could tell because the air was cool, the daytime sounds of canvas and shouting muted and the bird’s cries had disappeared. There was no pain, just the stiffness of lying still for too long and he began to gently flex his muscles, wary of cramp, working his fingers and toes, then wrists and ankles, moving along his limbs gradually. He knew someone else was in the room, he could hear the occasional shifts of breath and movement, more than one, he knew they watched as he moved, apparently still willing to wait for him to acknowledge them.

_ Anders _ . Was that him? His name? He felt for the emptiness inside, the pit that lay within his soul.  _ Justice _ . Was that him? His name? Neither felt right and another name ( _ Vengeance _ ) flitted through his mind and was gone before he could catch it and hold it to himself. Other names passed through, images appeared and disappeared, a hawk, a wolf, a great tree, a pointed crown, none of them made sense, some of them had emotions attached, friendship, hatred, love. There was something else missing, he realised, something beyond the oubliette that had swallowed his memories. Nodes that pulsed with colour, that warmed him with their song, spread throughout his body, now lay silent. Quiescent. As if empty and waiting to be filled. Had they ever been empty before? He remembered blackness, the clank of metal, the soft feel of fur beneath his hand but his mind shied away, unwilling to look deeper into the darkness. Then, those nodes had been silent and empty then, but what it was, when it was, why it was, these were questions he could not answer. Movement and thought had exhausted him, this time he slept without compulsion.

Anders opened his eyes and stared at the wooden ceiling. The sounds and smells told him it was day again, and he was still in a cabin onboard a ship. The strange lassitude was gone, the aches and pains with it and he was hungry. He was starving. And he really needed to pee. He pushed himself up on his elbows to look around, wondering if there was a pot in the cabin. He had forgotten the shifting and breathing he had noticed previously so he jumped when he saw the woman watching him and nearly relieved himself in his smalls.

“Oh,” Bethany exclaimed, “Don’t get up. I mean, not just yet. I need to check you over and…”

“Bethany, I really need to…” he shrugged, helplessly, uncomfortable expressing his needs to the girl before him. She looked puzzled, then her face cleared and she reached under the bed for the pot and handed it to him.

“I’ll… I’ll wait outside. Just shout when you’re done. But don’t get up.” It was funny, he thought, how her voice went from unsure to commanding so easily. Sighing with relief as he emptied his bladder, he thought about the bits and pieces he could remember and wondered if Bethany would fill in the gaps for him. He closed the pot over and was about to shout for her. He looked around for water to wash his hands but the jug and ewer were on the other side of the cabin and he had promised not to move. Well, not so much promised, really, more not argued, not really even agreed. So he decided to cast a quick healing spell on himself before going to get it.  _ Healers really do make the worst patients,  _ he thought with not a shred of guilt as he reached for his mana, then froze. There was nothing there, no warming colour, no gentle flow through his body. He hadn’t even noticed but his power was gone, each nexus dull and silent and utterly, utterly empty.

He must have shouted out, because suddenly Bethany was in the room with him, her hands around his wrists as he pulled at the tangled blankets, catching him as he tried to rise and fell to the ground instead. He must have been shouting because his throat felt harsh, the taste of blood at the back of it, red flash across his vision on one side as if he had cried hard enough to burst a vessel. He must have been shouting because Bethany was holding him, whispering to him, telling him everything was fine, everything would be ok, begging him to calm down. He must have been shouting, but he stopped abruptly, silenced by the door opening and the sight of the last person he ever expected to see again. Rhiannon Cousland-Theirin, Commander of the Grey, Queen of Ferelden, stood in the doorway, watching him with no expression on her perfect face, then flicked a glance to the side. He felt Bethany’s cool hand on his head and the whispered “Sleep” before the world disappeared, once again, into darkness.

When he woke again he just lay in the bed, eyes closed, unwilling to move. He heard angry voices but he didn’t want to listen. He delved inside himself but still no magic rose to meet him, no vibrancy, no life. Was this Tranquility, he thought? Being yourself inside, knowing yourself, but unable to care, unable to show it to the world? Had his outburst been his last expression? He remembered now what he had done, what Vengeance had done, that name he hadn’t been able to remember before. Justice was gone too. What happened to a spirit when it’s host was made Tranquil? Did it die? Did it return to the Fade? Had either of those happened before the branding, didn’t he remember dying? Was that what Tranquility felt like, he thought Mari kinder than that but had she branded him for his betrayal instead of killing him as he expected. As he had silently hoped, his life as justice for those he had murdered, his life for the corruption of the spirit within him. Did he feel sorry? Disgust? Disappointed? Did he feel anything? Anders simply lay there, unable to answer any questions, oblivious to the argument going on around him, until a name penetrated his fog.

“...Mari wouldn’t have wanted this.” Bethany’s voice, so much softer than her sister’s but no less stubborn.

“Then your sister should have managed the situation better, Beth. What exactly am I supposed to do?” Reina’s voice still sounded girlish, sweet, better suited to a court lady than a Warden-Commander, even though her tone was hard and angry. “She was supposed to keep him beside her. Not let him run off alone for his hare-brained scheme.”

“I doubt it was that simple, Rhi. Anders is about as easy to herd as his precious cats.” The sound of Nate’s voice was comforting. He had always had a knack for soothing Reina, for soothing Anders himself for that matter. It was easy to just lie back and listen to the familiar voices, sink into the sounds and leave worrying for later.

“I seem to remember you two not leaving your room for several days.” Nate huffed as Reina continued, acerbically. “Anders is easy enough to herd around by his dick.”

“Rhi!” Bethany sounded shocked, and a little amused, her next words spoken carefully as if suppressing giggles. “I think Anders and Justice together were a little harder to distract, even for Mari.”

Reina sighed. “I thought she would sit him down, explain that she knew his plan and supported him. I thought she would tell him there was a plan to get him out. Instead she told the dwarf, the pirate and the elf and made everything - dramatic.” Reina hated drama, he remembered that. She liked things simple, straightforward, under control. She had enough drama at court, had lived more than enough of it during the Blight. She could be as manipulative as an Orlesian bard, had in fact been trained by one, but with her friends such duplicity was abhorrent to her. He thought about how Varric, Isabela and Fenris knew the plan, whatever the plan had been, but there was nothing where the pain might have been. Varric was the best choice, Isabela obvious if they were on a ship and Fenris, well the days when they had hated each other were long past but there was mild surprise at the elf helping him. Of course, he would have been helping Mari, not Anders, which made all the difference.

“And Anders,” Reina’s ire changed to disgust. “If he could trigger it at any time, why do it then. You saw them, they were setting up for a fight anyway, why not wait until they were fighting in the Gallows, away from all the civilians. And why such a huge explosion, except obviously for it being flashy. You can’t tell me he couldn’t have directed that explosion to only take out the Chantry instead of half the city, or he couldn’t have waited until Mad Meredith and that fool of a First Enchanter were back where they belonged instead of having them fighting their way through what was left. No, Beth, it was a fuck-up from beginning to end. The cuffs stay on, at least until I know what we’re dealing with.”

Cuffs? Anders slid his fingers slightly back towards his wrists. Cuffs. He could only just feel the edge of them but he suspected they had runes worked into the leather. Suppression cuffs, that’s why he remembered being in solitary, he had worn something similar then. But those cuffs had only blocked his mana, not drained it, they had blunted his emotions too but not taken them away completely. A skilled runesmith had made these. But if he wore suppression cuffs, then he was not Tranquil. A Tranquil had no need for such things. He shivered slightly at the thought, relief passing through his mind. Were the cuffs also suppressing Justice? He still couldn’t feel the spirit, who had been absent at every awakening though he hadn’t been able to quantify the loss. He thought the answers would come eventually, so allowed himself to slip back into sleep.

\------

The argument continued as he slept. Bethany wanted Anders freed, the cuffs removed and the sedative she had been administering allowed to wear off. She argued that she had not helped save him to subject him to the very slavery he had fought against. Rhiannon looked to Nathaniel who said nothing and said it very loudly. It was clear he agreed with his mate and nothing the queen hadn’t expected. Nate loved very deeply and even if he had chosen Bethany, and chosen well, in her opinion, he still cared for Anders. But he was cautious too, he had agreed with her reasoning, that Justice might manifest and destroy the ship, and them with it. But as bad weather and an unanticipated complication made their journey longer, he leaned more to Beth’s side, worried about the apathy Anders showed when he was awake, and the amount of time he wasn’t.

They had docked at the old smuggling caverns in Amaranthine as planned, intending to wake the mage there then travel to Vigil’s Keep. Instead there had been a messenger, with a letter from the King, warning them to stay away from the keep. There were no explanations, the messenger could give no insight, so they resupplied quietly and slipped back to sea on the morning tide. Soldier’s Peak was their fall back position, another three days journey to a small cove that led into caves below the mountain fortress, the same caves they had been lost in the first time they entered the Peak. The Dryden’s could be trusted to keep their mouths shut and of the Wardens, only Avernus lived in the castle itself. The whereabouts of Soldier’s Peak was not on modern maps, Arland had banished all memory of the place along with the Wardens, so it was the safest stronghold they had. But it was also isolated and there would be no one to assist with Anders if he proved too dangerous. Rhiannon could only hope that Alistair had the forethought to send a few trusted wardens to the Peak to wait for them.

The day the cove was sighted, Rhiannon instructed Bethany to stop Anders’ sedative completely. He had spent a little time awake each day, they had no wish for him to be oversedated, or to have to wean him from the addictive potions at the other end. Bethany had talked to him, or Nathaniel, insignificant chatter, nothing too stimulating. Rhiannon had kept to her cabin, or the deck for her training, avoiding Anders’ cabin unless she knew he was asleep. She was angry at the mess he and Hawke had made, the repercussions she knew would spread across Thedas, but that wasn’t why she was avoiding him. Truthfully, she hated to watch the funny, gregarious man she had known as he was now, numb, empty, and so very skinny. She knew the cuffs would dull his emotions as well as his magic when she asked Sandal to make them, it was the sight of him that hurt the most. She remembered the first time they met, the Tevinter robes he had worn that displayed taut arms and a muscled chest, his face narrow and intelligent. Now his face was haggard, gaunt, he looked at least a decade older than she knew him to be, while his arms were thin, his chest spindly, as if he had wasted away, burned away from the inside by the strain of sharing his body with a spirit. It hurt to look at him, it made her angry at him, and at Hawke for not taking care of her precious mage, and especially at herself for accepting his death all these years. It had never occurred to her that Anders might be alive and not come to her for help. But he hadn’t trusted her enough to come and that hurt.

Now they stood on the beach, four wardens, one in what might as well have been chains, their ships disappearing into the distance. Anders’ eyes were lucid, his gaze wary as he watched his Commander approach. He had barely managed broth and water on board so looked even more emaciated than he had in Kirkwall but at least his eyes meeting hers were alert, even if she felt too guilty to hold the gaze.

“Anders,” Rhiannon’s voice was gentle, almost tentative. “Do you know where we are?”

He looked around, considering his answer. “On a beach? It’s a nice place for an execution, if a bit chilly.” Rhiannon’s jaw dropped at the word ‘execution’.

“Anders,” Beth and Nate spoke together but Rhiannon raised her hand to silence them.

“Execution?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You think we set up a rescue, healed you, carried you through Kirkwall and smuggled you to Ferelden on a ship so I could execute you on an empty beach? Anders…” She had run out of words.

“Crimes against the state, the wardens, the Chantry, whatever. I killed a bunch of my brothers, if you want to start there.” He was almost… cheeky as he said it, the first sign of the Anders she had once known. “In my defence, they made me give up my cat.”

“You killed foresworn criminals who attacked a fellow warden with no provocation.” They all jumped at the new voice, turning to see King Alistair emerge from the cave mouth followed by four others. “You fled instead of reporting to your Commander, because your Commander at the time was an arrogant, Chantry-led fool who was exiled to Weisshaupt and apparently met an unfortunate accident on the way there.” He flicked a glance at his wife as he said it, unsurprised when she ignored him. She had never admitted to engineering Caron’s accident, but he wasn’t stupid and he hadn’t pushed because he thoroughly approved. Instead, Rhiannon was focused on the bundle in his arms, a bundle he now held out to Anders. “And your cat is right here, healthy and fat from all the mice he’s been hunting since we got here.”

Anders took the pouch Alistair handed him and opened it, jumping slightly as a furry, ginger face peeked out and meowed. The mage was frozen, all he could do was stare at Ser Pounce-a-lot until the cat wriggled his way out of the pouch and started climbing Anders’ robes. The pouch hit the ground as the mage lifted his hands to support the climb, wincing at the sharp claws digging into skin although he didn’t make a sound. Instead he sank to his knees and curled himself around Pounce, hugging him, kissing the furry face, tears running down his cheeks. Eventually, he looked up at Alistair and smiled.

“I don’t know what to say.” 

The king extended his hand to help the mage to his feet before dragging him into a massive bear hug, almost squishing Pounce who protested by launching himself off Anders with a yowl before heading to Bethany for cuddles and the slice of dry fish she was holding out to him.

“That would be a first,” said Alistair, frowning as he held Anders back to look at him. “Maker’s Breath, man, you’re skin and bone. We need to feed you up, you’ll give the grey wardens a bad name.” Anders burst out laughing, a shaky laugh that turned into more tears that became huge, gulping sobs. Alistair looked surprised, then slightly panicked, as he pulled Anders back into the hug, eyes frantically signalling Rhiannon to do something, anything to fix the situation. She shook her head, telling him silently to just let Anders get it out, glad that Alistair was there. He had always been better at things like this, she was too sharp, too abrupt, Alistair was gentle and sweet and being hugged by him was like being hugged by a giant mabari, comforting and healing. So he stood, letting Anders cry into his shoulder, stroking his back and telling him everything would be okay, he was with them now, he was home. When the mage finally relaxed enough to push back, embarrassed by his outburst, he gave him room. Now it was Rhiannon’s turn. She moved forward and gave Anders a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek before taking his hands, one at a time, and releasing the suppression cuffs. The resulting flood of mana, the rainbow that flowed through him as his power returned was overwhelming and he started laughing, filled with joy and wonder, sparks crackling from his fingers, wisp lights appearing all around them, red, yellow, green, purple, blue, floating through the air and exploding into cascades of colour. After years of hiding, years of being pushed to the limits by Justice’s unforgiving crusades, years of fear and self-loathing and guilt, Anders was finally, truly free and home.


	5. The Price of Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is back with his fellow Wardens, but he has still to face the consequences of his action.

Soldier’s Peak stood in silent majesty, overlooking barren peaks and empty valleys. Apart from the comings and goings of the small family of traders who inhabited the lowest floors and outbuildings and the solitary mage in the highest tower, the keep was abandoned, too isolated to be worth maintaining as a permanent base instead Ferelden’s monarch’s used it to meet with certain of their friends away from the eyes of the court and as a fall-back position should the Wardens ever need one. The Veil had been repaired but was still thin and few were inclined to linger. But now, for the first time in two hundred years the halls rang with laughter and the strains of music.

In the Great Hall two red-heads played lutes while one of them sang and a young man improvised harmonies to their ballad on a flute. Food and drink were spread on a long table set beside the fireplace where at one end sat a man and two women playing diamondback and at the other three handsome blonde men sat reminiscing, one of them idly stroking a cat curled sleeping on his knee.

“So, the Knight-Commander draws a ridiculously large sword made of what Hawke informed me is red lyrium, and proceeds to attack everyone in sight, including her own men. I stayed close to Isabela and we concentrated on the templars who were still supporting her while Hawke and Fenris concentrated on Meredith, along with some of the templars, led by a very handsome man with blonde curls. Anyway, we are starting to get somewhere when…”

“Wait,” Anders interjected, “Cullen? Knight-Captain, Mr Templar himself went against Meredith? He doesn’t even think mages are actually people, why would he suddenly change sides?”

“I do not know if he fought with the mages, or simply with Hawke, but I have to say  _ la loca _ did not seem a very appealing option, with her eyes gleaming red. She brought the statues in the Gallows to life, one of them nearly crushed me. Ah, it was a long and hard-won battle and in the end it was not Hawke who triumphed but  _ la puta _ tried to channel too much power through her sword and it turned on her. And now she remains, a statue of red lyrium in the centre of the courtyard for all to see.”

Alistair frowned, “That explains why she felt so - wrong - when we met. I’ve never heard of red lyrium but it sounds like nasty stuff.”

Anders picked at his plate, savouring the food although his shrunken stomach was more full than he would have allowed a patient in his position. “It drove Bartrand mad, Justice hated being in that Thaig because the walls were full of it, he said the song was wrong, twisted, corrupted. I’m not sorry she’s dead, Meredith needed to die for everything she did, but Maker, does anyone deserve that?”

Bethany and Nathaniel sat beside them at the table. “Does anyone know if she’s actually dead?” Bethany asked, curiously. “Maybe she’s still alive in there, watching free mages pass by her every day, knowing she failed.” Nathaniel groaned and the other men looked slightly sick.

“Cariña, as beautiful as you are, that is too macabre for me. I think I will excuse myself and celebrate my return to the lovely Ferelden by getting to know its people better.” Zevran stood and bowed to his friends before heading down towards the group playing diamondback where he asked to be dealt in with a smile at the tall brunette who was dealing.

“Ali, Dora or Ayren?” Alistair asked, smiling after the assassin as he charmed the three recruits.

“I’m betting all three,” Alistair jumped slightly as arms wrapped around his shoulders and his wife leaned over to get a better view of the elf and his prey. Rhi gave him a quick kiss on the cheek then slid onto the bench between him and Anders. “That is one creepy thought, Beth, that psycho still alive and aware in there forever. I really didn’t need more nightmares, you know.” Bethany laughed and shrugged, smiling at Nathaniel when he put a plate laden with roasted meat, vegetables and fresh baked bread in front of her, then slapping his hand with an indignant yelp when he stole a slice of lamb and shoved the whole lot in his mouth.

“I don’t know why I love you, Nathaniel Howe, you’re a brute.”

“Surely that’s one of the best things about him,” smirked Anders, “I mean, it doesn’t take two hours to put your packs in your room, does it?” The others laughed as Bethany slapped Anders’ arm and Nathaniel blushed. Raised a noble, he was still sometimes uncomfortable with how open his friends were about such things, especially given his history with the blond mage, but the subject quickly changed to other things and he put his arm around his mate and relaxed.

“So what did you say to Cullen, Rhi?” Bethany asked, “It must have been impressive if it made him switch sides.”

“Wait, you spoke to Cullen? Did you know him?” Anders was confused and Rhiannon turned and patted his cheek.

“Hush, you were slung over Nate’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes and Cullen was in the way. I distracted him by reminding him of some home truths.”

“But how do you know him?”

Alistair leaned in to Rhiannon as she looked uncomfortable and filled in the gaps. “Cullen and I trained together, more or less. He started later and he’s a year younger but he was so good he caught up to me in no time.” He fidgeted in his chair. “He was a far better student than I was, we would have taken our vows together if I hadn’t gone with Duncan. I didn’t see him again until Kinloch Hold.”

“Yes, I know he was there, that’s how I knew who he was, he had a crush on my friend, Neria.” Anders’ voice turned bitter. “He was probably hiding with Gregoir and his other pets while she was ripped apart by demons.”

Rhiannon put her hand on Anders’ arm, “He wasn’t,” she said, then looked helplessly at her husband again. Of everything they had been through that year, all the horrors she had witnessed, the Circle of Magi was the one that figured in her nightmares. The official account of their experience had been heavily sanitised by Leliana but memories of the place still turned her stomach, so much so that when they had been invited to the rebuilt Circle, Alistair had gone alone while Rhiannon pleaded her duties in Amaranthine.

“Cullen was the only templar to survive.” Alistair said, shortly, frowning at Anders to derail any further questioning, but the mage was frowning back.

“No, that’s not right, that was just a rumour, the lone surviving templar, tormented for weeks by blood mages, blessed by the Maker to stay strong, it’s Chantry propaganda.” Anders stood and started pacing while his friends watched with concern. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not.” Rhiannon felt sick when she remembered the condition they had found him in after being tormented by desire demons, broken in body and soul, begging for the deaths of those who had done those things to him.

“But then, why send him to Kirkwall? He was supposed to go to Ostwick, they sent word to all the Circles, I mean, they didn’t come out and say it, but it was implied, everyone knew. There were mages studying trauma, one of them specialised in templars. Sketch smuggled a copy of her notes to me, they were sent to every Circle too, it was good stuff, I’ve used her techniques myself with traumatised mages.” As much as he despised templars, Anders’ years as a healer had taken over and he was incensed by the injustice done to Cullen. “Kirkwall’s never had a good reputation, when Stannard was appointed they thought she would be a new broom but things just got worse. There’s a darkness in the city itself, not even counting blood mages there are more murders, rapes, slavers and all sorts than any other city in the Free Marches. Why would anyone do that?”

“A question I would love to pose to the former Knight-Commander, if he weren’t dead.” Alistair had met Cullen while in the city, always at Meredith’s side, and he had been perturbed and angered by the callous way Cullen spoke of the mages, so different from the fervour and determination to protect that he remembered. “But as it is, unless Cullen himself knows, none of us ever will. But Ostwick always had a reputation for being rather lax, a bit of a joke, Greagoir probably thought a tighter ship would help.” It was a poor excuse, an unforgivable cruelty to the man but there was nothing to be done about it now. 

Rhiannon echoed his thoughts. "There's nothing we can do about it, at least he chose the right side eventually." She pinched Anders playfully, "No more talk about Kirkwall, we're celebrating our lost warden returning to us. Tonight is about us." With that she pulled him up as Leliana began a Ferelden jig on her lute, Bethany and Nathaniel joining them along with Zevran and one of the recruits. All four had been chosen and trained by Leliana, they would face The Joining the next day, the survivors would be wardens first and foremost but would also watch out for the warden mages in the aftermath of the Kirkwall rebellion. But for tonight the world outside was forgotten and they celebrated being together.

\------

Sitting in the Warden-Commander’s office the next morning, Anders regretted celebrating quite so much. A quick healing had banished the worst of his hangover but couldn’t fix the exhaustion of hours of dancing and very little sleep. Rhiannon, having danced as much and slept as little, looked disgustingly refreshed for their dawn awakening and was smirking at his suffering when Alistair lumbered in, slamming the door and going straight for the kettle beside the fire. Tea in hand, he sat to the side of her desk and Anders wondered if he was present in his capacity as the Commander’s second or as King. Whichever it was, Alistair looked how Anders felt, so he hoped Rhiannon would be merciful to them both and make this quick. 

She hadn't changed at all, he thought as he watched her flick through a pile of parchment on her desk. Her deep red hair was pulled into a bun but errant curls framed her perfect face, blown irritably out of veridium eyes by the pouting mouth he had fantasised about kissing so many times. Guilt burned in him at betraying Mari, even in his mind. Marian Hawke had given his life meaning again, she had challenged him and protected him and loved him and he had used her, ruined what was between them, forced her to kill him and here he was, saved by her quick wits and generous heart, lusting after his Commander while her husband sat only feet away. Anders slumped down and hoped once again the meeting would be over quickly. The way Alistair shifted in his seat, he was obviously hoping the same.

Four thick envelopes landed in front of him. “Read them, pick one.” He lifted the top envelope and opened it, inside were several sheets, the first with a name at the top of it.

“Wilhem Muller?” He looked across at her as he opened the others. They all contained the same thing, a name and a back story. Rhiannon raised one elegant eyebrow.

“Anders is dead, he died in Kirkwall, executed by their Champion for blowing up the Chantry, murdering the Grand Cleric and most of the priesthood as well as a substantial number of citizens in the ensuing chaos. Also dead at the Champion’s hand are First Enchanter Orsino for blood magic and incitement to riot and Knight-Commander Meredith for illegal use of the Rite of Tranquillity, illegal use of the Right of Annulment, torture, murder and incitement to riot.” He was surprised at Orsino, glad about Meredith, worried about Mari, but one look at the Commander’s face told him not to interrupt. “All four packages describe a male mage of Andersfel ancestry who became a Grey Warden shortly after the Blight. Give Leliana the ones you don’t want, she’ll provide appropriate clothing and equipment for the one you choose and coach you in the right behaviours. One of my trusted Wardens will be watching you at all times, you will not use magic without direct permission from one of your superiors except in defense of your or another warden’s life.” He opened his mouth to protest but the eyebrow shut him down again and a glance at Alistair’s face showed no sympathy from that direction. “You will not leave Soldier’s Keep and it’s environs except in the company of myself, Alistair or Nathaniel. Any correspondence must be checked by one of us before being sent and any you receive will also be checked before being given to you. You will make no attempt to contact any of your associates from Kirkwall including, but not restricted to, Marian Hawke or her friends, the Mage Underground or any of the mages from the Gallows. You may interact with Bethany Hawke but you may not ask her to share information or pass on messages to any of the above people. Do you have any questions?”

He just stared at her, jaw slack from shock. She waited for a moment then nodded. “You’re dismissed, Warden. Breakfast will be available in the main hall in around an hour, we will see you there.” He waited a moment until Rhiannon turned to Alistair and started discussing the guard rotations for the Vigil and then took the envelopes and left, closing the door gently behind him before leaning against it, stunned and set adrift by Rhiannon’s abrupt list of restrictions on his freedom. The caring concern as he healed, the camaraderie of the day before, all gone in minutes and suddenly he was back in the Circle, constantly watched, completely controlled, everything he had fought against suddenly weighing once more upon him. He felt sick, sliding down the door until he was sitting on the cold stone floor, the walls of the corridor pressing in against him and he fought down panic, dropping his head between his knees and trying to calm his frantic breathing, leaning forward enough that he didn’t notice the door open behind him until arms reached around him and drew him into a close embrace that he latched onto, neither knowing nor caring who held him. Eventually his breathing calmed, his heart rate settling and he looked up, surprised to see Alistair leaning into him, his deep voice soothing him while Rhiannon looked on, her face impassive. She turned and went back into her office, leaving the door open while Alistair helped Anders to his feet and kept his arm around his shoulders until he was back in the seat he had just vacated, while Rhiannon pressed a cup of tea into his hands, the scent of chamomile floating up to him and soothing him. He sipped it carefully as they sat down before him.

Rhiannon’s voice was cold when she spoke. “Do you have an issue with my restrictions, Warden?” Anders looked at her, unsure of his answer. “In case you’re wondering, they are more lenient than those of your compatriots in Circles at the moment who are restricted to their buildings, some to certain floors, with no communications in or out and templars monitoring every room without fail and taking head counts every half hour with punishments for anyone not accounted for at one count, even if they were simply not noticed and other mages vouch for their presence. The list of mages made Tranquil in place of their Harrowing has doubled and there are rumours that some have followed Meredith in making Harrowed mages Tranquil. All because of your actions. We have already had to deal with petitions from half the Landsmeet asking for all mages to be exiled from Ferelden and we couldn’t land at Amaranthine because rogue Templars were pulling ships apart searching for apostates running from Kirkwall, at least four merchants who had the misfortune to be wearing robes were killed outright."

She softened slightly as she said, "The restrictions are to protect you until we know you will be safe, until your cover story becomes second nature." Then she became stern again. "I mean what I say about Bethany. We ran past the dead and injured, lying in the streets or buried under rubble, men, women and children murdered by your ill-conceived plan and we did it carrying you to safety. If Bethany will speak to you, I would be grateful, if I were you. If she won't I suggest you don't push your luck. And if you mention Kirkwall to her, or the family and friends who we haven't heard anything from, I'll drop you in the Deep Roads without so much as a staff." With that Rhiannon stood and flicked a glance at her husband. They left the room together, leaving Anders to sit and consider her words. He had known he would kill innocents, had known the backlash would make things worse to begin with. He had trusted that the mages would follow his example, that the templars would realise they were not untouchable, but what if it never ended, what if his people became so cowed they would never be free - because of him. He had been willing to pay the price for their freedom, for their justice, blind to how corrupted he had become, oblivious to the horror he was raining down on innocents. While he had been rescued, cared for, offered a new life, he had ended how many more. Nothing he could do would ever be enough to wash him clean of the blood he had spilled, no price could buy him forgiveness. Lost in his guilt, Anders simply sat and stared into the cooling cup before him. 


	6. The Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has anything really changed for mages after Kirkwall?

Over the next few weeks Soldier’s Peak began to empty. Leliana’s agents all survived their Joining, something she was rather smug about, it had to be said. Ali and Dora left with Nathaniel and Bethany the following day, heading for Vigil’s Keep and the main cohort of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens while Martin, the young flautist, left a week later with Zevran. They would travel to the Free Marches to make contact with Stroud and his wardens and to assess the risk to the mage wardens in the wake of the Kirkwall Uprising as it was being called. Alistair had already returned to Denerim to deal with unrest among his nobles and reports of apostates and rogue templars. Amaranthine was not the only port to be targeted and the Royal Guard currently supplemented the guard in Denerim while Fergus Cousland had closed Highever to all ships from the Free Marches. For a country still wrecked by the Blight and Civil War six years previously, the loss of revenue and risk of violence and insurgency was a setback the Crown could not ignore and Rhiannon quickly followed him back to the capital. As the Peak became emptier, Anders felt more and more like a ghost, wandering aimlessly through empty halls. He was no longer Anders, no one referred to him by that name, he was trying to stop thinking of himself by that name, Anders had died in Kirkwall, his name alternately cursed or blessed across Southern Thedas, his legacy a crackdown on the Circles and a rising movement for complete freedom from the Chantry and the Templars. 

He had spent hours with Leliana, learning his new life-story not by rote but as if it had really happened, something that was far harder than he had anticipated. He had to learn to think differently, to move differently, even to speak differently and he had to do it constantly, any lapse punished with isolation from anyone except the Nightingale until she was satisfied. He spent hours looking in a full length mirror, trying to accept the short cropped hair and full beard, the broader chest and softer stomach as he ate as a warden should, his diet chosen by Rhiannon and Leliana to pile on pounds he desperately needed, physical exercise with a bo as well as a staff and training with daggers making sure the extra weight became muscle. He would never be as broad as Alistair, nor stocky like Nathaniel, but he no longer looked like a starved sewer rat for the first time since leaving the wardens years before. If truth be told, he looked like his father, a complicated thought wrapped up in pride and fear and love and self-loathing. He had rejected the name Wilhelm because it was his father’s, too many more complicated thoughts and feelings to confront, instead he settled on Josef. His mother used to tell him stories of an Anders prince named Josef, who had fought the Blight on a griffon and become one of the first Grey Wardens, he had always liked the name. The surname, Weber, was fairly common, there were probably scores of Josef Weber’s in the Anderfels, it would raise no eyebrows.

Josef Weber had undergone his Joining in 9:30 in Hossberg. He had grown up in a small village not far from the city and entered the Circle there at the age of ten. He had been conscripted after being sentenced to Tranquility for invading a royal function, another reason Anders had chosen him. He had set out with several compatriots to help reform the Fereldan wardens but had never reached Denerim, all were presumed dead in a darkspawn raid, or drowned in one of the storms that had been particularly bad that year. His life and disappearance were a matter of record at Weisshaupt, although he had never been there, he had been chosen for having been Anders, a mage and a known warden, and because his body had never been found, nor the bodies of his companions. When asked how the six year gap would be explained away, Leliana had simply replied, “It won’t.” Josef had arrived at Vigil’s Keep with his friends. Those friends died in the initial darkspawn attack or in the final assault and Josef had been sent recruiting; it wasn’t an unusual job, there were a few solitary wardens roaming Thedas looking for likely candidates as Duncan had once done. Otherwise, Weisshaupt’s assumption that Weber was dead would be presented as a failure of communication due to extenuating circumstances, embarrassing for Rhiannon but far from unusual. He had been on his way to the Vigil with his recruits when the current unrest made him decide to stop at Soldier’s Peak where Nathaniel and Bethany had been to speak to Avernus. Of course, the King and Queen had been nowhere near, traveling back from Highever where Queen Rhiannon had welcomed her husband from his diplomatic mission to Kirkwall, relieved that he had left before the shocking events had taken place that could have left Ferelden kingless once again.

The sparse Anders he had learned as a child had now to be built on, until he was fluent in language, tone and accent, especially in slang and curses. For six weeks he had spoken nothing else, glad that languages had always been one of his strengths. Even little mannerisms or peculiar emphases his parents had used started coming back to him. By the time the Nightingale received word to return to the side of the Divine, few in Ferelden would be able to see through him, even had he been allowed to leave the Peak. Instead he remained, left to his own devices, under no instructions beyond those Rhiannon had given him at that dawn meeting.

Finally, only Anders and Ayren remained. Ayren was a quiet woman with brown hair and unremarkable features that had allowed her to move freely wherever Leliana had required her. She had been a ranger once, living in the Dales and making her living hunting and trapping, curing and selling her own hides, living with her ranger husband in a small cottage deep in the Emerald Graves. He had died and she had ended up working for Leliana but she would never tell Anders the story of either event and he could tell she still grieved for her mate so he never pressed but he did learn the man had been from the Anderfels and so Ayren had learned the language and gave him someone to practice with when Leliana had gone. She also insisted on him practicing hand to hand combat with her daily, wearing him out and covering him with bruises he had no energy to heal. It was quiet with only the two of them, but Ayren was soothing company and to his surprise that was exactly what Anders needed.

Of course, they were not the only people in Soldier’s Peak. The Dryden’s bustled in and out of the lower levels, their seemingly endless clan appearing and disappearing, moving cargo here and there and bringing noise and life with them. They also managed the Keep although they mainly kept to the lower levels, at least when there were wardens in residence. Then there was the mage, Avernus, living in the tallest tower where he carried out who knew what research. He never left the tower and the wardens had been warned never to enter it unless Rhiannon took them to be introduced. Soldier’s Peak had a  _ kelsana _ system, dwarven lifts to take food or laundry or suchlike easily through the massive fortress and those were Avernus’ only contact with his fellow inhabitants and that only at Rhiannon’s insistence, for two centuries he had used the bathing room and small rooftop garden of his tower for all his needs, unable to venture further for fear of the demon possessing Sophia and its minions, the isolation had warped a mind already corrupted and the maleficar did not react well to unannounced visitors. 

For the most part, the two wardens spent their days alone but that did not mean they were lonely. Training and language practice were not the only things keeping them busy, they shared an interest in herbalism and Ayren was more than happy to increase her knowledge of healing and medicines, in return teaching Anders to brew poisons. There were no woods to track through but she taught him basic survival skills and he really wished he had learned some of them when escaping from the Circle. But as time went on and no news came from outside except the gossip and rumours of the traders, Anders grew more and more melancholy, convinced he was being left to rot while his efforts faded into obscurity, wondering why his Commander had bothered to orchestrate his rescue if only to imprison him all over again. He withdrew more into himself, spending hours in the library, avoiding Ayren when she would let him, learning what he could of survival when she wouldn’t. Finally, he began to stockpile equipment and plan his escape. He could not, would not tolerate imprisonment. He would be free or he would die - for Anders, there were no other options.

\------

Rhiannon’s back was straight, her face impassive as Arl Wulff ranted at length, pacing the Hall before the Landsmeet as he demanded the permanent expulsion of all mages from Ferelden. The petitions and complaints had been pouring in so frequently Alistair had called the Landsmeet to deal with the issues head on, with no intention of acceding to their demands. Rhiannon had met Wulff frequently over the years, he had been an honourable man, passionate about his people and their wellbeing, and a good friend to her father. But the destruction of West Hills, the Blight that still made many of its fields barren, had broken him, until she barely recognised the bitter man standing before her, leader of the anti-mage faction at court. Finally, he wound down and waited for the King’s response.

Alistair stood, calm and confident in his court robes and crown, his voice carrying across the room so all could hear. “Thank you, Arl Wulff. We have listened to your concerns and will address them. There will be no expulsion of mages from Ferelden, they are our subjects as much as anyone and entitled to our protection as such. We have received word that Divine Justinia has recalled all templars, any who disobey are to be stripped of rank and expelled from the order. The Seekers of Truth are charged with finding those who have forsaken their vows. All mages are to return to their Circles, apostates will be dealt with, as they always are, by the templar order and under the command of the Chantry. The situation in Kirkwall was completely unanticipated, especially by myself or I wouldn’t have been anywhere near the place, but the disorder will settle, there is no need for overreacting.” The slight titter at his joke faded in the face of Wulff’s reaction to the word ‘overreacting.’

“Does your majesty consider the murder of nine innocents, the assault of many more and the destruction of several caravans of goods a minor concern? The duty of the crown is to protect the people…” 

Alistair interrupted him, “The attacks were carried out by rogue templars, there was no evidence any mages were involved at all, the templars who were captured have been tried and executed, and posthumously expelled from the templar order. These attacks were not a minor matter but neither are they a matter for the Landsmeet.”

“Templars who would have been at their posts if they hadn’t been searching for apostates!” Vaughan Kendells wasn’t truly on Wulff’s side, he was a troublemaker who enjoyed causing trouble for Alistair out of spite for his relegation to one of his minor estates outside Gwaren as punishment for crimes against a number of Denerim’s elves. Unfortunately, vile as he was, Vaughan was intelligent and had contacts across Thedas thanks to his family’s former status as Arls of Denerim. “Searching, rather, for one apostate. I presume you have heard the rumours that the maleficar fled to Ferelden after his destruction of Kirkwall?” Alistair didn’t flinch. “Of course, he would return to Ferelden, since he belonged to the Circle here, an escapee during the siege, no doubt it's instigator given recent events. And then there’s the fact that he murdered the templars who were returning him to the Circle and persuaded the Queen to make him a Grey Warden before disappearing almost immediately after.” There was an undertone to his words that made it quite clear the means of persuasion Vaughan was talking about and Alistair’s ears were getting red with the temper he struggled to contain when Rhiannon stood and laid her hand on his arm.

“Lord Kendells, you haven’t been listening to tavern gossip again, have you?” she said in her light voice, provoking several sniggers that were quickly stifled. “You should join us at court more often, the gossip here is far more interesting, and, of course, more current.” The Arl grimaced at the reminder of his effective banishment and loss of status, glaring at Eamon Guerrin who sat in the seat that he still considered his by right. The Queen continued, ignoring the occasional outbreaks of giggles or gasps or attempts to interrupt.

“The mage, Anders, was a member of the Ferelden Circle of Magi and as such was never accused of blood magic or consorting with demons. During the unfortunate occurrence in Kinloch Hold, he was in solitary confinement and, in fact, had been for a year, escaping only by the luck of being ignored by demons who did not know he was there. The templar’s escorting him at Vigil’s Keep were killed by darkspawn and I personally saw him fight those same darkspawn until the last one was dead, one man against many. I will remind you that conscription into the grey wardens is not done lightly and that he was conscripted because I deemed him useful, a fact borne out by our defeat of the darkspawn army in Amaranthine. Your King and I made the decision regardless of his wishes, in fact. In spite of the immunity that should have conferred as a by-product of his usefulness, he was in fact assaulted and almost killed by templars posing as wardens the following year and, as was his right when there is no Blight, chose to leave Ferelden. As to rumours that he survives, the Champion of Kirkwall and their new Knight-Commander have both confirmed his execution by Lady Hawke. I suspect the idea of a hero who would appear out of the shadows would make useful propaganda for the mage underground but I prefer to follow facts, not rumours. One of our wardens was passing through Kirkwall at the time of the explosion, on a mission for the First Warden. He reported directly to me that he witnessed the Champion executing a man he confirmed was Warden Anders, that his body was indeed in Kirkwall, lying at the bottom of the Chantry steps which is certainly fitting. That death has also been reported to Weisshaupt as all warden deaths are. I wrote the notification myself and sent it with the token each warden receives, which was retrieved by Warden Howe from the mage’s body.” Nathaniel’s name sent more whispers through the room, his honesty was almost proverbial among the nobility and once upon a time he and Vaughan had been friends, not as close as Nate and Fergus but friends none-the-less. Rhiannon knew mentioning him by name would gain her credibility and shut Vaughan up, at least for now. Alistair had covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze, a subtle thank you for dealing with Vaughan. The last time he had challenged his King, Alistair had called him a vile toad and threatened to exile him to the Korcari Wilds, a political misstep that had taken Rhiannon weeks to fix.

He cleared his throat and inclined his head towards the assembled nobility. “If no one has anything further to say on this topic, we will adjourn for lunch. You have all heard the Divine’s decree, no further action on this matter will be taken, the Seekers are dealing with what is, essentially, a Chantry matter. Civil disturbance will be dealt with by the civil authorities, of course. The Landsmeet is ended.” By the looks on some faces he knew that wouldn’t be the end of it, but Divine Justinia superseded secular authority on this matter so officially it was closed. There would be various meetings and machinations but over the next few days the nobility would drift back to their lands and other concerns and Alistair planned to offer up thanks to Andraste when they did.

Together, the monarchs walked to their private quarters where lunch would be waiting for them. It was one of the last warm days they could expect so the maid had laid the table out on the balcony and they sat basking in the sunshine, Rhiannon pouring juice for them while Alistair absently nibbled on a slice of bread. When they were both settled, he spoke. “How did Kendells get all that information?” Rhiannon looked up at him.

“Most of it’s public record, Ally, the rest is years old, I’d barely call it information.”

“It was a direct attack on you. He basically blamed you for Anders blowing up Kirkwall.” He was brooding, worrying about her and as always it made something inside her melt. “And implied you had a torrid affair while you were at it.”

“He’s an arse. He should be grateful he still has lands and a title, after what he did you could have made him a pauper and exiled him.” Although that would have been difficult since his crimes were, unfortunately, all against elves and supposedly only witnessed by elves. They may have been working to change things but they weren’t there yet. “I didn’t touch the innuendo to make it clear that the suggestion was beneath me. Challenging something he barely hinted at would have been as good as an admission of guilt.” She leaned back in the chair and eyed him sharply. “What’s bothering you lately? And don’t tell me it’s nothing. Wulff and Vaughan are both short-sighted dickheads but Divine Justinia’s decree is clear, within a few months everything should be back to normal.”

He looked at her, misery painted across his face that took her back to the early days of his reign and suddenly she knew what pained him.

“I thought it was really going to work.” He muttered it almost defiantly, moving pieces of food around his plate. “I thought there might be a chance for real change. Instead everyone’s fighting about how to make everything the same as it has always been. Nothing ever changes.” He pushed the plate away and stood. “I’m not hungry. I’m going to head to my study, no doubt the piles have been accumulating even faster than normal the last few days, always happens during the Landsmeet.” Rhiannon stood with him and moved to block the door, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her head on his chest. Her words had crushed him then, she knew they still haunted him. ‘They won’t let you marry an apostate.’ She might as well have said, ‘They won’t let you marry a mage.’ Any mage. Unsaid between them, ‘They will take your baby away.’ There would never have been a happy ending for Alistair and Morrigan, not in the world they lived in. Anders had tried to fight for a different world, a world where a mage could fall in love, could marry, could keep her child and could do it all in the open, living beside everyone else. Wynne had told Alistair she had a son, had even gone to visit him after the Blight. Alistair knew he had a child he would never meet, somewhere, raised by the woman he would never stop loving. The only child he would ever have, a child she could never give him. She felt the shudder passing through him, emotion restrained once again and wished once again that he would let go, that he would allow himself to feel the pain and allow her to comfort him, but she didn’t resist when he gently moved her away from him and left the room. Standing in the middle of the floor she whispered a silent promise to Alistair, and to Morrigan, that one day she would find a way to fix it all.

  
  



	7. To End the Blight

Rhiannon wrapped herself in shadows as she left the cave system, slipping into the Keep through one of the numerous side doors and using servants passages to move through the fortress without disturbing its inhabitants. She had already spotted Ayren at the training field, an indeterminate number of Drydens loading and unloading carts in the courtyard and as she passed the library she spotted Anders, sitting with his head in his hands at a desk covered in open books. She squashed the burst of sympathy and affection she felt along with the urge to go in and comfort him; she would see him later, for now she had another mage to visit.

The tower was unchanged, icy winds blew across the connecting bridge and she noted several of the spring traps had been activated and would need to be reset. Miriam Dryden knew the path through them for the rare occasions Avernus needed something that could not be transported by  _ kelsana _ but the wind or the occasional unlucky bird still set a few off between her visits. She slipped inside the tower and made straight for the door to Avernus’ laboratory, casting off the shadows as she entered and calling out her greeting.

“Avernus, where are you, you evil old bastard? You did it!” He was on the dias pottering with his equipment and looked up with no surprise at her entrance.

“I presume the tests were satisfactory, then.” It wasn’t a question. Avernus was brilliant and he knew it, failure was an insult, success inevitable and Rhiannon was more than happy to indulge his unpleasantness for the results he produced.

“A whole field, completely cleared. Ines very nearly smiled.” Her voice rang across the room. “All the areas tested have produced the same results, completely cleared of the Blight. The first areas are already sprouting crops.”

“Hmmm. Anything grown will have to be tested carefully before anyone tries to eat it. I presume you intend to have the harvest sent here? I have a list of requirements.” He turned to look at her properly, sneering at her enthusiasm. “Or you could feed them to criminals, to discover if they are still tainted.”

Rhiannon ignored his comment, one she had already considered and discarded. The Blight could take months to develop in a living body, Avernus would be able to tell if the food were tainted far quicker, not to mention the fact that Alistair would have exploded if he ever found out. Her husband had a strict moral code and would not have tolerated experiments on other people, not even criminals. He allowed Avernus’ continued existence only because of Rhiannon’s promise that she was monitoring his ‘ethical’ research, and because she dangled the prospect of clearing the Blight from Southern Ferelden before him. She threw herself into the leather-bound armchair she had installed in the tower for her visits and started playing with one of her daggers.

“Can this mixture be used to clear the Blight from a living person?” she asked casually.

“Not this one, no. It has too many poisonous ingredients. But there was one of the variants that had potential, no use for earth, it cleared the Blight but the soil was completely barren… I’m sure it was in this book…” He trailed off as he began hunting through his notebooks, not noticing the fleeting pain on Rhiannon’s face. A potion that could clear the Blight, that might work for living beings, even if it could not reverse sterility, that could be a blessing for them, it could further her plan substantially. If, of course, Avernus could find it and make it work. 

She settled herself and made her voice carefully light and unconcerned. “Such a potion would be invaluable, not only in Ferelden but in other countries also. Importing both to places like the Anderfels would give us a much needed source of revenue.” She sat forward slightly and brought her leg off the arm of the chair, a movement that Avernus glanced up to acknowledge then dismissed as he continued to rummage through piles of notebooks. “I wonder if having another mage would be of use to you? One who knows the mechanics of the human body beyond simply how to take them apart.”

“I have no interest in an apprentice, useless creatures, getting underfoot and expecting to be taught.” His response was hardly a surprise but neither was it an outright no so she kept pushing for the moment.

“This would be no apprentice. A fully trained mage, a skilled healer and potion maker.”

“Is he willing to do what needs to be done?” Avernus’ voice dripped with contempt. “Healers rarely have the stomach for the more experimental aspects of magic. Lily-livered bleeding hearts, most of them.”

“He’s an exceptional battlemage and killer, a wanted murderer and he’s a Grey Warden.” 

Avernus looked at her with interest now. “He may be acceptable. I will also need test subjects.” Rhiannon nodded, unconcerned with his demand. She had already anticipated that and had arrangements in hand. In fact, her contacts would be here in only a few hours and she had other things to attend to first. She stood and made her goodbyes, taking the list of equipment and ingredients Avernus needed to produce larger amounts of his Blight potion and promising him the resources he would need for the new project. Once a sufficient amount of the stable potion was available, she had other herbalists who could make it, freeing him to concentrate on a cure for Blight sickness, but for now it was best to keep him occupied while she arranged the things he would need.

She made no attempt to hide when she left the tower, stopping at each triggered trap to reset it then heading inside the main keep to her office. People rarely ventured onto this level, she had once been here for four days before bothering to announce her presence to Miriam and Levi. She lit a fire in the hearth, chilled from the walk across the bridge, and poured a glass from the flask at her hip. It was her own flask, with her own concoction in it, Antivan brandy and mead from the Cousland hives, warming and sweet. Alistair’s flask always held the Rivaini spirit,  _ tzuika _ , in memory of Duncan but over the years he had added a mixture of Antivan brandy and elderflower gin from the stills in Rainesfere, a combination Rhiannon found harsh and acrid, while he found her liquor too sweet. Idly she wondered what her friends carried in their flasks, imagining that Bethany would have something flowery, perhaps the rose liqueur they made in Tantervale, something that would clash with the birch spirit she knew Nathaniel preferred. It was a tradition for mated wardens to mix their base drink, most would assume that she and Alistair had done so, only her closest friends knew they never had. She thought Anders, no  _ Josef _ , she must get used to it, even in her own head, she thought Josef would prefer citrus, remembering how greedy he had been for the rare oranges that sometimes appeared in Amaranthine’s market from Nevarra, how he had hoarded the  _ strega limoncello _ they had retrieved from one of the many shipwrecks on the Storm Coast. She had often thought Nevarra would have been a good place for him, mages were not as restricted there though they did not have the freedoms of Tevinter or Rivain. But sunshine and citrus and the respect his healing skills deserved were what she would have wanted for him, not a tiny room at the back of a clinic in the sewers of the cesspit that was Kirkwall. She shifted in her chair and took another swallow, this one direct from her flask. Angry, she was always angry at him. She had been angry since he left, angry at him for letting himself be ambushed by those templar bastards, angry at him for not coming to her, angry at him for dying, angry when she discovered he was not dead but hiding out in Kirkwall, angry that he had spoken to Alistair and never went to him for help, angry that he had known Alistair was in Kirkwall but still set up his bomb, angry at having to rescue him and angry that he had never asked to be rescued. Her anger for Anders never seemed to end and it made her want to weep.

When she had taken Alistair back to Denerim she had been torn, wanting to care for her husband, her best friend, wanting to make sure Anders was well, that he would recover. He had saved him, had almost killed himself to do it. But once back at court work had drowned her, both hers and Alistair’s. Her replacement had already been on his way, sent by Weisshaupt to relieve her of at least one set of duties, her priority had to be her country, at least for now. By the time she could return to Vigil’s Keep Anders was gone, presumed dead alongside his attackers. She had sent Caron under armed guard to Weisshaupt, on charges of betraying a fellow warden and interfering in politics by allowing Chantry influence within the Keep, but she had no faith in the justice he would receive so she had asked Zevran to help her with her little problem. Caron had died with his guard (any resemblance to certain associates of Leliana’s was completely coincidental) and Rhiannon had mourned the loss of her friend, adopting Ser Pounce-a-lot when she found out Anders had been forced to give him up. She had nursed her anger and her grief for over five years, her guilt at failing one of the few friends she had believed had not chosen to leave her for their own personal cause. Alistair had not minced his words at her behaviour to Anders that day, her cold demeanor undoing everything the welcome of his friends had done for him the day before. How could she explain to him, who had been abandoned by his only love but stayed true to her still, the conflicted feelings that morning, she couldn’t even explain them to herself? Protecting herself with icy detachment was better than the vicious things she had wanted to say, the years of pain she had wanted to pour out on a man who did not deserve it, who had never done her any wrong, who was completely oblivious that in a few short months he had replaced her own lost love in her heart and how she had hated him and herself for that and how it had hurt all over again when she lost him as she had lost Rod. Rhiannon swallowed again, enjoying the burn travelling down her gullet, ignoring the tears travelling down her cheeks. She was here to deal with him, she needed to get herself under control first, so she laid her head on the table and allowed herself to weep, silent and alone.

\-----

It wasn’t unusual for the bell in the library to ring, Miriam knew Anders spent most of his time there when he wasn’t training with Ayren or moping in his room. It was the rhythm of the ring that drew his attention, a rhythm he hadn’t heard since he left Vigil’s Keep, a rhythm he had never forgotten, bone deep so he was already moving before he realised what it was - the summons of the Warden-Commander. Rhiannon was here, waiting for him in her office. His stomach lurched at the thought of seeing her, facing the icy cold where once there had been warmth, wondering if he was about to be even more restricted. His escape plan was almost ready, he was only waiting for the thaw to make his move. He had tried to escape in winter before, it was miserable and pointless and the quickest he had ever been caught; in fact, he had been so cold he was almost glad to see the templars and the warm tower with his warm blankets and various warm bodies to rub up against. The Peak had been cold, cold enough for him to consider trying to get Ayren into his bed, or possibly Levi’s muscly blacksmith brother, but it would be nothing to trying to get down to the Bannorn, so he was biding his time, enduring the loneliness until he could be free again.

The door was ajar, waiting for him, a fire roaring on the hearth, it’s heat radiating out into the corridor, warm and welcoming. He could smell food so someone knew the Commander had arrived and the delicious smells reminded him he had missed lunch. When he walked in Rhiannon wasn’t sitting behind the desk but in an armchair near the fire, a small table holding two bowls of his favourite smoked fish chowder and a plate piled with bread and butter, it was almost like being back in Amaranthine, joining her for a late supper and a friendly game of chess or a chat, when he had called her ‘Reina’ and she had spent hours going through absurdities trying to get him to tell her his real name. Often Nate had joined them, and Alistair when he was there, but usually it was just the two of them, the most unlikely of friends, the Queen and the apostate. But those days were long gone and would never return, the best he could hope for was a reprieve from this empty prison. He hovered in the doorway, not sure if she had seen him enter, until she looked up and said,

“Are you coming in or what? I don’t want my supper to get cold while you make up your mind.” He laughed, a short burst that he stifled quickly, the comment had been so familiar, just for a second it felt as if they had never been apart. But he squashed the laugh because she was staring at him with her ‘Commander’ face on, a bit of light humour appropriate from superior to subordinate, not the affection he had once valued. He sat in the other chair, noticing it had been positioned so the focus was the fireplace, not Rhiannon herself, and picked up the nearest bowl, looking for the heel of the bread, his favourite part and a handy spoon for the thick, creamy chowder. Eating it like that reminded him of his mother and his childhood, before everything went to shit for his entire life. They ate in silence and she poured wine for them both, trying to hide the fact she was slipping liquor from her flask into her glass. It was one of the things that had brought them together, the first thing she had trusted him with, the truth about her drinking, the help only he could provide. It hurt that she was trying to hide it again and that he didn’t know how long it had been going on for. Five years they had been apart, did they even know each other any more?

She handed him the other glass and sat down, twisting so she could watch him as she spoke. “If you run again, I won’t help you.” She jerked her head towards the corner where his escape pack lay, open and obviously rifled through. “I won’t stand in your way, but you will never be welcomed or sheltered by a Ferelden warden, you can sink or swim. For once, we will turn our backs on you.” Her voice was bitter, almost as if she was pained, but her words made him angry.

“For once? You mean making me give up my cat and setting templars on me didn’t count? Good to know.” He got up to grab his pack, pushing the contents down so he could close the top. “I haven’t been sheltered by the wardens for years, I don’t need it now. Especially when it’s just another word for imprisoned, just like the Circles.” She didn’t make any move, didn’t lift a hand to stop him, but the sharp laugh she gave out made him pause and stare at her in affront but she didn’t even look at him.

“Five days ago a rapist and a murderer was able to stand up in front of the Landsmeet and imply that the King was an incompetent cuckold who stood by while his Queen helped a maleficarum escape the tower after he had manipulated a coup of blood mages to free him from well deserved confinement. That the Queen, that I, helped the maleficar escape justice for murdering those templars who were bringing him back to justice, that I lured the Knight-Captain who objected to a warehouse in Amaranthine and killed her, and that I engineered my maleficar lover’s escape when the Chantry found him again and hid him in Kirkwall to undermine the Chantry, warp the Knight-Commander and seduce the Champion then destroy the city to bring down the Circles and turn us all into another Tevinter and then I spirited him away from justice and am hiding him somewhere in Ferelden where I can no doubt continue our torrid affair. He even managed to imply all that in three simple sentences, it was impressive. It took me far longer to refute even half of it and no matter what I said his accusations are out there, festering in people’s minds. So I’m either a blood thrall or a vicious, murderous slut and Alistair is an incompetent fool who can’t even keep his wife in line, never mind a kingdom.”

Anders sat back down. It was impossible, ridiculous, who would believe such nonsense. The answer, of course, would be a lot of people. The further the rumours spread, the more people would believe it, the more unstable the country would become. Refuting it publicly would prompt ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ responses. Ignoring it could be taken as an admission of guilt. Just having associated with him could ruin everything they had worked to build since the Blight. “You should have let me die.” She finally looked at him, not shocked or surprised, just tilting an eyebrow in that infuriatingly beautiful way she had.

“What difference would that make?” She stood and walked over to her desk, lifting a pile of papers and holding them out to him. “Avernus has found a cure for blighted fields. The food they produce has to be tested still but it’s promising. I have asked him to do the same for blighted people. He needs someone who knows how to test things on people without resorting to blood magic or torture, someone who won’t be squeamish if the results aren’t what is expected and someone with the backbone to stand up to him when necessary. I was hoping you would do it?” She didn’t say that being able to heal the land and even the blight-sickness would make people forget all sorts of rumours but he knew she would be thinking it. He took the papers and glanced at them. “To start with, I’ve received a shipment of blighted sand-worms from the Anderfels. I can get more when necessary. I can be here within a couple of days if you need anything but Levi can get most things. I suggest you make yourself familiar with this work and I’ll introduce you to Avernus in the morning.” She sat at her desk and started rifling through other things in a way that told him their discussion was at an end so he took his pack and the papers and left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Rhiannon slumped in the chair. She hadn’t meant to tell him that, hadn’t meant to burden him with more guilt, as usual her temper had got the better of her. She straightened herself up, pushing the remorse down deep and pulled out the strip of vellum she had been ignoring all afternoon, a strip attached to a raven she recognised instantly. There were no words on it, only three symbols - a spider’s web, a lion’s head and a snowflake. For whatever reason, Morrigan had finally come out of hiding and Leliana had found her.


	8. Interlude: 9:37 - 9:39

Reina

The food you sent is blight-free and safe to eat. Avernus requests you send samples from other sites to be sure but the soil Ines provided is also clean and currently growing herbs and an apple tree which show no signs of blight, nor does the earth it was transplanted into. We believe you can safely demonstrate the potion to the landsmeet and I have included the recipe so it can be made in sufficient amounts. 

Our new project is not going so well. We need more sandworms. Avernus may be a mad bastard but he's also a genius so don't give up hope, we've barely begun. 

I'm sorry for the things I said before you left. You've saved my life more times than I can count but I'm stupid when I'm angry, that hasn't changed. I think Pounce misses you, I've had to retrieve him from your office or your chambers at least once a day since you left. But he is always curled up beside me when I sleep and I'll never be able to tell you what having him back means to me. 

This was supposed to be a quick note slipped in with the recipe but I've rambled on. If there is any progress I'll let you know. 

JW

\------

Josef

The demonstration went perfectly, Wulff actually cried and he wasn’t the only one to have tears in his eyes. To have food grown from the cleansed earth to serve was the highlight. We’re keeping the recipe quiet for the moment, other countries will want it, I don’t think there’s anywhere in Thedas that doesn’t have blighted areas, but as far as I’m concerned, Ferelden comes first.

Tell Pounce I miss him too, and so does Alistair although he insists he doesn’t (he instructs me to say that as King of Ferelden his allegiance is to the Mabari and certainly not to any animal that insists on scratching him at 4th bell to avoid disturbing me - I know this is nonsense since I’ve already caught him feeding scraps to one of the mousers in the stables.)

I told you long ago, don’t be sorry for saying what you feel, not to me, or to Ally or Nate or even Beth, we are your family. You said nothing I haven’t told myself over the years, my only defence is that it’s fairly easy to find a queen if you need her and rather harder to find a hermit apostate hiding in a sewer. We will have words about that, but not right now. Right now I’m too happy at being able to start healing our country. 

Reina

P.S. More sandworms are on their way. Make sure Levi sends me the bills for anything else you need.

\------

My friend

Our mutual acquaintance is well positioned at court. She cuts through the Game rather than moving with it and such scandal has very much livened up the court. The position of Arcane Advisor has rather put the First Enchanter’s nose out of joint, but that is not always a bad thing.

I miss our days of travelling with our friends, if you hear from any of them would you give my regards? Your thoughtful gifts, Ally’s jokes, Zev’s stories, I even miss Sten’s stalwart presence. But the one I miss most right now is Wynne and her wisdom. I often speak to her Perfection about our travelling days and how Wynne reminded me of her so often, if only they could meet. Do you know if she is still travelling with Shale?

Anyway, I must leave my reminiscing and attend to my work. I hope to see you soon.

L

\-------

Lady Morrigan, Arcane Advisor to the Court of Orlais

We wish to convey our royal congratulations on your position at Her Majesty’s court. The Empress will be well served by such a loyal servant and one who is not embroiled on either side of the current conflict, Her Majesty was most foresighted to seek such expertise.

While we would never wish to be accused of poaching courtiers, you are always welcome in Denerim. Much of what we accomplished during the Blight was owing to you, your skill and your friendship, your long absence from our presence has been much regretted though we respect the necessity of it and your heroism had never been truly acknowledged. To this end a small manor was placed in your name some years ago, it’s title and lands to you and your heirs in perpetuity. The income is being held in the royal vault but will be forwarded to you at Halamshiral when you wish it.

We remain your most affectionate friends,

Alistair & Rhiannon Theirin

\------

Reina

I think the sandworms have developed a symbiosis with the Blight, they die at any attempt we make to eradicate it. Perhaps creatures from lands more recently blighted would work better. If a dead blight wolf or bereskarn could be found I think studying the corpse could be helpful also.

Nate and Beth were here a few weeks ago. Beth brought a letter from Hawke but I haven’t brought myself to read it yet. I have once again become the coward I was before Justice, hiding and running away, even if now it is only as far as the library. It is hard not having anyone to talk to, even as a ‘sewer hermit’ I had plenty of company, beyond Justice. Avernus barely speaks while we work together and I do not like to impose myself on the Drydens, they are not comfortable with a mage even if they don’t know who I am. Ayren is on her way to her sister in Orlais, as I’m sure you know, Vielle’s confinement comes close and she wishes to be there when the baby comes. So I speak to Ser Pounce-a-lot a lot and feel sorry for myself, as you can tell.

This letter has turned out to be a lot of complaining. I'm going to read Hawke’s letter, then I’m going to invite myself to dinner with Levi and Miriam and their noisy, delightful family. I might even finally investigate if the brawny Mikhael wants to follow through on all the flirting he does. No more pity party for me.

Pounce sends his love but is disgusted with Alistair’s professed love of slobbering hounds and his unfaithful behaviour towards this other cat.

Josef

\------

Anders

It’s been almost a year since the last time I saw you. Beth tells me you’re fine but I wonder sometimes, are you fine, are you even alive? Your Commander is a hard bitch, but it was the only chance I had of saving you, not just from the Templars, but from yourself. I wonder if it would have been different if you had confided in me, if we had laid plans together, if you didn’t feel you had to hide from me. We’ll never know.

I keep in contact with Varric and Aveline but I haven’t been back to Kirkwall in months. We stayed long enough to help with the rescue efforts, then the recovery, but eventually we drifted away, one by one. Isabela left first, of course, sailing off into the sunset. I hear from her occasionally, never from the same port twice. Fenris was almost captured by a group of slavers hired by a cousin of Danarius who thought he should inherit the scumbag’s wealth and made the mistake of counting Fenris as part of that. They and their employer were dealt with but he’s gone off on a mission to wipe out every slaver in the Free Marches. I hear from him less than I do from Bela but I certainly hear OF him a lot more. I know you had your differences, but if your Queen didn’t tell you, he helped with your escape and fought beside us to defend the mages. I worry about him almost as much as I worry about you, and far more than about Bela who always manages to get herself out of the trouble she gets into. 

Aveline is still Captain of the Guard, although she will be taking some time away from it shortly to welcome the pitter patter of tiny sabatons. It’s entirely possible Donnic might survive the pregnancy but according to Aveline he is the worst kind of father-to-be, he even tried to convince her to give up the guard on the basis of becoming a mother. She hasn’t killed him yet but it’s amazing how many graveyard shifts or dock runs he’s suddenly been assigned. Merrill has become the unofficial Keeper for the Alienage and she finally destroyed that damned mirror.

I don’t know if you’ve read his book (don’t, it’s an embarrassment) but Varric made sure everyone thinks you’re dead. Unfortunately he also made me notorious and I’ve been hiding out of the way of both mages and templars and just about everyone else. Sebastian gave me refuge for a while and sent what templars Starkhaven had to help Cullen in Kirkwall (old stick-up-the-arse actually fought against Meredith and has been doing a good job as the new Knight-Commander according to Varric.) He’s disappeared for a bit, some other adventure he can’t tell me about apparently (Varric, not Cullen) but you know Varric, he’ll never leave Kirkwall.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to tell you. This letter hasn’t really gone how I planned it, I just wanted to let you know everyone was safe. I wanted to tell you how much I love you, how much I miss you, how I wake up in the night and turn to you but you’re not there. You used me and betrayed me and I still want you to be here, with me. I wish I could fix all this, I wish I could find you, or you would find me and we would live happily after raising our own brood of little mages and rogues, the way we used to talk about in bed at night. But sometimes I wish you had died, I wish I had done the job properly and I hate you for all the death and destruction, for how the templars have retaliated against the mages you wanted to save, how you made me part of those deaths. I turn to you in the night but it’s because I’ve woken from dreams of the injured or the dead we pulled from the rubble, the newborn baby I found hidden under her mother’s body as the woman had tried to shield her from the collapsing building, the knowledge that if we had been there sooner that baby might have survived.

I can’t do this to myself any more so I promised myself I would write this letter, the first and the last. Beth won’t give you a forwarding address, you won’t hear from me again, as far as I’m concerned I killed you on the steps of the Chantry in Kirkwall. I love you, all I can do now is mourn you.

Mari

\------

My Darling Rhi

I am on my way home. I feel like you are the only family I’m ever to know and I miss you. I’ll tell you the whole story when I get home but nothing went as planned, nothing ever does for me. I planned to land in Denerim and head straight for the palace but I wish we could have some quiet time, just for us. Will you meet me at Soldier’s Peak? I have a couple of injuries I’d like  And Josef to look at, nothing serious - I promise. 

I love you

Alistair

\------

R

Things are coming to a head with the mages and the Seekers of Truth, be wary. None of us know what will come but something is happening in the White Spire.

I have been tracking the information you asked and it appears the rumours are true, though how and why I do not know. My little birds keep their eyes and ears open for more.

L

\------

Josef

I am coming to Soldier’s Peak with a massive amount of disgusting blight-ridden insects from the Korcari Wilds and the carcasses of two blight-wolves and a bereskarn - the things I do for you!

Alistair will also be there soon, possibly even before me. Look after him till I get there, something is going on but I don’t know what yet. 

I have a plan I want to talk about with both of you. Also, I found oranges in the market this morning and send them with this letter, save me one.

R


	9. Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events referred to in this chapter are from the graphic novels. They are well worth reading.

Anders stood on the small, stony beach and watched as the boat worked its way in closer to the shore. He could see the ship farther out, too large to come any closer, the people on it mere dots going about their business, oblivious to the mage watching them. He had set a fire in one of the caves, blankets warming beside it, food and healing supplies carefully laid out on a table beside a small cot, close enough to the fire for comfort but far enough away to keep the water and the potions cool. He counted four people in the boat. Two men were rowing strongly, struggling against the occasional shifts in the current on the way into the cove, directed by a woman in leathers and a ridiculous hat with a long blue feather wilting damply down the side of it as another man leaned against her shoulder. He had that light red hair that could only be called ginger, curled slightly in the salt spray and carrying down into the light growth of stubble on his jaw. As the boat came closer, Anders could see that he wasn’t just leaning into the woman, his whole body spoke of pain and exhaustion and he quickly tried to remember if he had added any analgesic potions to the small kit he had brought down to the cave.

Alistair looked like shit. In fact, as Anders ran forward to help the man out of the dinghy he was so focused on how awful he looked he barely noticed the person handing him out. One of the king’s arms was in a sling and Anders could clearly see the twist where it wasn’t healing straight and the flinch and slight give as he put an arm around his waist spoke of another injury hidden by his leathers. He startled slightly when he turned to look at the sailors and realised the woman with the battered face and bandaged wrist was Isabela, changing what he was about to say to a curt, “This way,” before heading to the warm cave. He knew when Reina told him Alistair wanted him to check something that the damage would be worse than he would have admitted to his wife, but he hadn’t anticipated the hale and hearty warrior being gaunt and dull-featured, barely responding to Anders presence, and he hadn’t expected to see Isabela at all, let alone looking like she had escaped a war zone. He sat Alistair on one of the benches to grab some potions, handing one to Isabela before he moved back to his fellow warden.

“I need to check you over, Ally.” He said, in a soft tone designed to carry through the unexpected stupor. He let the magic wash over him, spotting a few minor injuries on top of the broken arm and the half-healed knot of infected, twisted tissue that was starting to stick to his guts and would cause major problems if left alone. He looked over to Isabela, whose swollen face was already almost back to normal. Her wrist could wait and nothing else jumped out at him so he moved his attention back to Alistair. The warden didn’t flinch when he prodded his side, trying to decide which wound to fix first. He gestured to Isabela to come closer before turning back to the man. “Take this potion. It’ll stop some of the pain, but we’ll need to break that arm again, and the gut wound is going to hurt.” Alistair just grunted so he showed ‘Bela where to put her hands to brace him as Anders held the arm in place and directed a fine thread of force magic right along the misshapen break, cracking it open again with one push, working with Isabela to keep him still when Alistair roared and pushed back. As quickly as he could, he directed healing energy towards the new break, sealing it cleanly as Isabela poured another potion down his throat. When he settled again Anders pushed him down on the cot so he could work on the gut wound.

By the time he finished, both men were sweating but Alistair at least looked more alert. Anders knocked back a lyrium potion and sat on the chair beside where his patient lay, trying to get his breath back and wishing he had brought some brandy down with the potions and food. Isabela, reliable as always, pulled a flask from her tunic and took a swallow before handing it to Anders who gulped a mouthful of liquid fire and ignored Alistair’s gestures in favour of handing it back to Isabela.

“Lotus potions and alcohol do not mix. None for you, your majesty.” It probably wouldn’t have made much difference, Alistair had a strong constitution even discounting a grey warden’s metabolism, but there was no way he was taking the chance. “We can rest here for a bit before we head up to the keep. Are you joining us, ‘Bela?” 

Isabela grimaced, “I need to head back as soon as the tide changes. I swear, when I get back to Kirkwall, I’m going to punch Varric then I’m going to sleep for a week?”

“This was Varric’s secret mission Hawke wrote about?” Bela looked surprised. “She… sent me a letter. Through Bethany. Just to say goodbye.” Anders sunk a little into the wooden chair. Her words still hurt, not just the horrors she described but the truth of them, the truth of him. Somehow, Vengeance had done what neither Justice nor Anders would ever have considered. Those last months were still a haze, he doubted the memories would ever truly return, but he could imagine everything Mari had written and the things she had been kind enough not to tell. Though he would never have expected Varric’s mysterious trip would have been in the company of Isabela and Alistair. “Is Varric with you? What in the Void were you up to?” He looked at Alistair. “Did Reina know about this?”

The man looked at him and finally spoke in a voice that sounded harsh, as if he had not used it much of late. “We dropped him in Kirkwall and came here. Apart from the gut wound, everything was from a storm that almost took us out on the way here. And yes, Rhiannon knows, and even if she didn’t, I’m a grown man and the fucking King, Anders, I don’t need my wife’s permission to do the things that need done.”

Isabela interjected, “I’ve met your wife, sweetheart. Even I wouldn’t be doing anything that  _ pisica  _ didn’t want me to, not if I wanted to sleep sound for the next twenty years. I bet the woman holds a grudge.” Typically, the idea didn’t seem to do anything but light up her eyes with a lascivious glee and Anders was reminded of the rumours that Reina had persuaded Isabela to teach her to duel by getting her into bed, potentially with either Zevran or Leliana, depending on the story. Looking at the faint longing he could see behind her expression, he wondered if it had been true all along, although neither woman could be persuaded to confirm or deny. “Varric’s fine, Anders, I’ll give him your regards when I see him.”

“I’m surprised he would want them?” Her beautiful face smoothed into neutrality at the morose comment. Just as he thought, Varric of all people would never forgive him, not for the damage done to his beloved city. He was probably ploughing his not inconsiderable funds into the rebuilding, calling in favours from all over the Free Marches and even as far as Orzammar. He wouldn’t want to hear that Anders was alive, never mind that he was well, Isabela was only being kind. He shook himself and stood up. “If you can’t stay, I’ll run up and bring some supplies back down for you. We can at least have a decent meal before you need to go. Ally needs a rest before he heads up all those stairs anyway.” She nodded and sat on the edge of the bench beside Alistair’s legs, watching as he disappeared, cursing himself for thinking he could have any kind of normal conversation with those who had once been his friends. 

Eventually Isabela had to go, embracing Alistair, then Anders, before climbing into the dinghy and disappearing into the distance. The two men watched until they couldn’t even pretend to still see her, before they turned to traipse their way up through the cavern system to Soldier’s Peak. Alistair was slow, his body needing to recover lost reserves in spite of Anders’ healing, and Anders had expended enough magic to be tired himself, so they took their time, finally reaching Alistair’s room as the dinner bell began to ring. 

Alistair groaned. “As soon as I hear that bell, my stomach starts grumbling, it’s trained into me. Do you think anyone would mind if I just rang for a tray? I don’t think I could get back down the stairs and there’s no way I’m managing back up. I feel like Bela’s boat landed on me, several times.”

“Judging by the injuries I healed, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.” Anders smirked at him. “I don’t think anyone will object. I might do the same thing myself.”

“In that case, come in and have a drink.” Alistair held up his hand before Anders could comment. “Cider only, although I doubt I have much lotus left in me by now. We’ll order enough for two and you can tell me how you’re getting on working with Avernus.”

Anders looked at the man beside him. Alistair still looked gaunt and tired, but he seemed to have a bit more energy and he wanted to know what had caused the gut wound if it hadn’t happened during the storm, so he nodded and Alistair led the way into his room.

All the warden’s rooms were similar, although Alistair’s was slightly larger since he shared it with the Warden-Commander. The plain stone walls were covered in tapestries to keep the heat in and heavy brocade hung at the windows while the floor was covered in fur rugs, everything coloured in Ferelden red and gold, warmer colours than Grey Warden blue and silver. Reina hated the cold and it showed in how she had decorated their room, and in the piles of blankets and furs spread across the massive four poster bed. A sofa and several armchairs clustered around the fireplace, which was laid ready to be lit since the monarchs visited frequently and usually without notice, so Anders directed a thread of heat to the hearth and settled himself in an armchair. By habit he avoided the two closest to the fire - Reina’s to the left and Alistair’s to the right - but Alistair just put a scribbled note on the shelf of the  _ kelsana _ and rang the bell for the kitchen staff, then collapsed onto the sofa, kicking his boots off and lying completely along it. Anders laughed at the sight of his head and feet both almost hanging off the ends before he also kicked off his boots and curled up in his chair.

They chatted about inconsequential things until the tray rattled into sight, plates laden with meat, bread and vegetables beside a pitcher of cider and one of water, while a covered plate hid at the back. It was a running joke that Alistair could not resist dessert before his dinner so it was hidden from him. Both men set to with the appetite of grey wardens and little more was said until the plates had been cleared and sent back to the kitchen and they sat with warmed cider in their hands, enjoying each other’s company. They hadn’t known each other long and it had been years ago, but they had been friends back then and Alistair had always regretted not being able to thank Anders for saving his life.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Anders was always the first to break a silence, even a comfortable one and Alistair thought about his offer but shook his head.

“I’ll have to tell Rhi the whole story, might as well save it for then. I don’t want to go over it too many times. Let’s just say nothing went the way it was supposed to and leave it at that.” Anders nodded and they sat quietly again until Alistair said, “I never got to thank you, for healing me? By the time I could, you had disappeared. So thanks.”

Anders looked at him, smiling slightly. “You’re welcome. It was certainly a challenge.” The smile became edged with smugness. “Even Wynne couldn’t work out how to do it.” The smile faded slightly and he fidgeted. “I’m just sorry it took so long, I had to find a spirit who could help me understand what was happening.”

“Well I’m very glad you did.” Alistair sipped at his cider and looked thoughtful. “Although given Rhi’s mood when you went missing, sometimes I wished I was still unconscious.”

“Her mood?” It wasn’t the first time someone had inferred that Rhiannon had been very upset by his leaving, Nathaniel had made a few comments before he left, including some that were quickly hushed by Bethany’s sharp elbow. They had been friends, he had missed her and now regretted not going to her, but Alistair’s tone, like Nate’s hinted at something more.

“My wife doesn’t do hurt well. She does anger very well, however. Her sparring partners had bruises for months. Then she gradually got over your death.” Anders straightened in the chair, opening his mouth to speak but stopped at Alistair’s upraised hand. “What we thought was your death. And then Nate reported that you were alive and well and living in Kirkwall. When I saw you there myself I didn’t know if I wanted to hug you or punch you.”

“I didn’t think you remembered me.”

Alistair glowered. “I’m not in the habit of forgetting friends, or people who save my life. But as it happened I was under orders to barely acknowledge you. You being stuck in the Gallows by that mad bitch would not have furthered my queen’s plan and therefore would not have been good for my continued wellbeing.” He hesitated slightly before he continued and Anders wondered if he were censoring what he wanted to say.

“Warden Rhiannon is as hard as nails and Queen Rhiannon is as smooth as silk, but my Rhi is a woman who gave up her love to protect him, only to have him killed along with her parents by a traitor, who was forced into the Wardens for them all to die, who built armies and gathered an amazing group around her to defeat the Blight only for them all to leave her when it was done. I don’t know if you know but Velanna disappeared after you left, then Sigrun went back into the Deep Roads and Oghren fucked everything up with Felsi so she left and took the little one with her and he spends his days drinking himself into oblivion even faster than he already did.” Alistair looked at the mage with eyes filled with sorrow and not a little anger. “You didn’t come to her for help, you didn’t even let her know you were alive. We funded that fucking clinic for five years and never knew it was you we were sending money to. You intended to blow up Kirkwall then let Hawke kill you and she would never have known it was you until it was all over if it hadn’t been for Nathaniel.”

Anders sank into his chair. It was nothing he hadn’t heard already, from Nate and Beth, even from Ayren, nothing his brain hadn’t shouted at him since he got here, how he should have gone straight to her, asked for help, instead of running away like the coward he was. “I used to try not to be a burden on my friends.” He said, feeling defensive. “I dragged her into enough trouble, with Rylock and the Chantry. And you were still sick, you needed her.” He didn’t say that in spite of the conversation he had overheard that night, he hadn’t wanted to go to Denerim and see them together, to be ignored as an inconvenience and a hazard as he had been so often in the Circle. The Grey Wardens had been his dream of safety, Rolan and his cronies had shattered that dream, he hadn’t wanted to go somewhere to see yet another thing a mage could never have - family, love.

Alistair sensed the shift in mood and sat upright, forcing a light, easy tone as he said, “I suppose you would never have met Hawke if you came to us. I could tell, that day, how much you loved each other. When the four of you walked away, Captain Aveline went back to her office and the dwarf disappeared too, but you two took your time, holding hands, leaning into each other, it was sweet.”

“And I had already betrayed her and made her an accessory to mass murder.”

“Maker’s breath, Anders!” Alistair stood and started pacing in front of the fire. “What do you want me to say?”

Anders stood too, putting his goblet on the small sideboard and grabbing his boots. “There isn’t anything to say, Alistair. You’re right, I ran away, I let all of you think I was dead. I used my lover to commit an atrocious act because I was an abomination but because I didn’t look like one no one cut me down the way they should have. So now I have no friends, no family, I live in an abandoned castle in the middle of nowhere with only a blood mage to talk to and a handful of traders who are scared of me and they don’t even know who I am. Reina should have let Mari kill me, there’s nothing worth saving. Now, you’re healed and you need rest, and so do I. Good night, Your Majesty.” He started to walk to the door, pulling the boots on one at a time, only to straighten up to find Alistair in front of him, blocking the way out, hands on hips.

“Oh, no,” he said, “You’re not getting away that easy. We’re having this out, now.”

“Why?” Anders crossed his arms over his chest, not willing to push past the man but not wanting to sit back down either.

“Because I’ve watched my best friend mope over you for the past five years and now I’m watching you drive yourself into a hole. You think you can’t be forgiven because you can’t forgive yourself. You live here until things have settled down enough for a tall, blonde mage to safely walk the streets and you call it a prison. You’re helping create a cure for the Blight, something that could save so many lives and you say you have nothing worth saving.” The king sighed, “Yes, you blew up a city, hundreds died and there is no version of events where that is alright, you could have done what you did without all the killing, in fact if you had waited an hour or so, Meredith was going to do it for you anyway. Also yes, you were an abomination in some way, both you and Justice warped into something that was no longer either of you, but you weren’t one of those lost things that rip into the world through someone, you had control, of a sort. You pulled your friends into a shitfest that you created. Did you know every one of them has scars from fighting in the Gallows that day, that your beloved Hawke walks with a limp because she had to kill the true abomination that Orsino became, because of your actions. You made shit choices and it’s only because you are loved that you are still alive. You should be grateful for that. Personally, I’d have probably had your head off before the rubble started to land, and if I’d known what you were up to I’d have done it before you set it off.”

He knew it was true, Alistair’s eyes were stone cold as he watched the mage who slumped before him in despair. He sat back down in the nearest chair and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know why they saved me. I wish they had killed me when they found out what I had planned. I didn’t even know what I had planned, not really, Vengeance hid everything from me so well, I really thought I was making a potion that would free Justice. I went to the Chantry to stand where I had killed Karl, to remind myself, when Justice was back in the Fade, that I still had to fight for them, that I couldn’t run away again. Then, when it happened, all I could do was sit on that stupid crate and hope Mari would kill me. It was like waking up from a daze but I found myself in a nightmare and one that I made.” He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed as he asked, “Why didn’t she kill me?”

Alistair didn’t know if he meant Marian or Rhiannon, but he knew the answer was the same for both. So he knelt beside Anders and looked him straight in the eye as he said, “Because they love you.” The bitter laugh made Alistair sad, that the man couldn’t believe such a simple truth, so he decided to give him a more complicated one.

“I can’t speak for Marian Hawke, I don’t know her. But I know my wife, better than anyone in the world. Rhiannon did everything she had to do to fight the Blight. She lost her entire family and when I fell apart after Ostagar she did everything and anything to win. She killed everyone in the circle except the mage she needed to get back out and the templar who had been trapped and tortured and still survived.”

“Cullen,” Anders whispered and Alistair nodded before he continued.

“She spread rumours and disaffection between the dwarves so a kinslayer and a crook could become King, she murdered a forest spirit and it’s followers to get the elves on side, she tortured the man who killed her family for hours before she finally killed him and then she manipulated Anora and Loghain and myself at the Landsmeet to get the result she wanted. She rescued you as much to annoy Rylock as because it was the right thing to do and she let the Architect live because she thinks he might be useful to her in the future.” Anders just sat, struggling to take in the things he was hearing, trying to imagine that the Commander was ruthless enough to do all those things at barely nineteen. “Believe me, if she wanted you dead, you would be. But while my wife may be a cold, hard bitch who will do anything to get what she wants, and I do mean anything, she’s also sweet and loving and loyal and protective. Once she knew you were alive it was only a matter of time before she found a way to rescue you and bring you home.”

“And now she hates me.” He flinched at Alistair’s laugh and looked up in shock.

“You’re not listening. Rhiannon loves you. She’s angry and hurt and you did something even she would call a last resort, but you are one of us and that will never change.” Alistair stood, stretching out his sore side then holding out his hand to Anders who allowed the warrior to pull him to his feet, only to be enveloped in a massive bear hug before being shoved gently in the direction of the door. “Now, I need to rest. My darling wife will be here soon enough and I need my strength to deal with her when she does. Get out of here, you stubborn bastard.” The men grinned at each other, Anders feeling lighter than he had in years, then he turned and left for his own room and his own thoughts on everything Alistair had told him.

\------

Once Anders left the room, Alistair stripped and lay down on the bed, barely noticing the slight breeze from the open window until a figure pulled itself over the sill and sauntered over to the bed. Rhiannon pulled her hood down and stood over her husband, eyes narrowed as she scrutinised every bit of him, from head to toe while he calmly watched her and waited for the explosion. Finally she relaxed and sat down on the bed beside him.

“What, no shouting? No poking at sore bits or demanding an explanation for the lack of letters?” He looked surprised but pulled her into his arms anyway, shivering at the feel of cold leather against his bare skin. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

Rhiannon was uncharacteristically quiet, ignoring his questions and attempt at humour to begin gently stroking his face, snuggling into his embrace as if she could burrow under his skin. “You didn’t find him?” she whispered.

Alistair tensed. He wasn’t ready, but after a month of travelling when would he be, who could he tell if not the woman beside him, who had stood with him through everything the Maker had thrown at them since their meeting in the ruins of Ostagar. For a moment he held her tightly, inhaling the familiar scent, feeling her loving care in the way her arms wrapped around him, her hand no longer stroking his face but instead smoothing his hair as she murmured how much she had missed him. Finally, he loosened his hold a little.

“We found him. His life force was being used to power some sort of device to enter the Fade. I couldn’t save him, we had to destroy the device and there just wasn’t enough of him left.” Something within him uncoiled as he spoke the words, knowing that his Rhi would never fault him for his failure but feeling it just the same, tears he had buried deep inside welled up and spilled silently from his eyes and she just held him while he wept for the father he could not save, the father he had never had a chance to know. Eventually he slept, while Rhiannon lay awake, holding him, thinking over the conversation she had listened to between the two men and laying plans. Finally she allowed herself to close her eyes, still holding her grieving husband, satisfied that she knew her next step.


	10. A Matter of Balance

Rhiannon sat at the table, finishing her pastry and coffee while she flicked through the pile of correspondence that had been waiting for her at the Peak. She could hear Alistair moving around in the bathing room and smiled at the comfortable sense of routine, choosing just the right moment to pour more coffee into his cup and set another pastry on his plate as he walked into the room wearing only his breeches and toweling his hair dry. She watched him surreptitiously, enjoying the flexing muscles of his arms and abdomen as he finished with his hair and threw the towel onto the bed, flinging himself onto the chair with his usual abandon and adding obscene amounts of cream and sugar to his coffee. There was an off-beat energy to his movements that told her all was not well, as if she didn’t know it already, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it so she just had to be patient. They sat in peaceful silence, Alistair having his own letters to read, until interrupted by a knock at the door.

She opened the door to Anders standing with his hand half raised as if ready to knock again and smiled at the sight of the healer. “Josef,” she said, waving him in, determined to remember his new name even if Alistair didn’t generally bother, in the Peak at least. Alistair kicked a seat out for him and put several cinnamon pastries, his favourite, on Rhiannon’s abandoned plate while she grabbed another cup from the sideboard and started to brew the herbal tisane he preferred. Stimulants were something Justice had very much approved of, keeping Anders moving night and day, and now even the smell of coffee made him feel slightly sick, preferring soothing teas and tisanes and indulging in sweets he had not been able to afford in Kirkwall. Never inclined to be idle, his frame was still spare, his bone structure fine and almost two years of eating well and training hard only made him wiry rather than skinny. Being almost a decade older than Rhiannon herself, he had always carried himself well, but she imagined he had been a gangly youth, all elbows and knees, his height making him clumsy, and she could sometimes see the awkward adolescent in the nervy man.

“I wanted to check on Alistair. When did you get here, Reina, I didn’t hear the bell?” He took a sip of tisane and sighed blissfully before helping himself to one of the buns.

“She hid outside the room and climbed through the window when you were gone.” Alistair said, mock growling at his duplicitous wife. 

Rhiannon laughed, “Don’t mind him, Ally is not a morning person. Besides, he’s worried I want him dead, in spite of the evidence.”

“Evidence?” Anders raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not dead.” Rhiannon shrugged. “Therefore, I do not want him dead. I do want to hear about these injuries though.” She shot her husband a hard look. “Since he won’t tell me himself.”

Anders shuffled in his seat, being in the middle of a potential argument between a married couple was not a comfortable place to be. “Reina,” he said, soothingly, “You know I won’t tell you anything Ally doesn’t want me too. I promise you, he’s fine. He just needs to rest for a couple of days.”

She harrumphed, knowing there was no point in pushing him, Anders had too much respect for his patients to breach their trust in his discretion so she just had to take him at face value. She picked up the last letter, a scrap of folded parchment smelling of sea spray and her name across the front in scrawled writing. She opened it with a fond smile, Isabela always left her a note when she had been near, usually something frivolous and risque, nothing serious, a perfect way to finish the pile of letters that continually went from bad to worse, the triumph of being able to clear blighted lands had very quickly given way to more complaints about the rising tensions between the Circles and the Chantry and what the monarchs were doing to fix it all, as if that were possible. A scurrilous note from Isabela would be exactly what she needed to take her mind off everything, including her unusually quiet husband. She sipped at her coffee as she read it, then nearly choked on the hot liquid as she burst out laughing. Anders was up and thumping her on the back while she waved her hands, trying to shoo him away while unable to control the laughter. Alistair had grabbed his damp towel and was wiping up the coffee she had inadvertently sprayed over the table while looking suspiciously at the note still held tightly in her hand. Once she started to calm down a little, he grabbed it from her and read it, then sighed and leaned back in his chair, hand over his eyes but the hint of a smile flickering on his mouth, while Anders looked at them both suspiciously.

“Anyone care to fill in the gaps?” he asked, looking between the two of them.

“Of course, Josef,” Rhiannon replied sweetly while Alistair muttered, “Rhi,” in a warning tone. “Can I ask you something first though, please? Did my darling husband have a broken arm among his injuries yesterday?”

“Rhi, I don’t think…” Anders looked at the suddenly flushed Alistair and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, he did. And Bela had a broken wrist and a black eye. They sailed through a storm, I assumed no one else was badly hurt or they would have brought them to be healed?”

“Oh, I’m almost positive no one else was badly hurt, were they, darling?” Rhiannon had the note back out of Alistair’s hand so quickly, neither man actually registered her moving until she was back in her seat and reading it aloud. “ _ Sweet Rhia, I have returned your husband safely and in almost one piece. He will tell you the whole story, but it might not be soon, I know you understand these things. One word of advice, you must teach the man balance, or patience to get to a bed. I have no doubt he’ll spin a story for the healer and my men now think the King of Ferelden likes to play very rough but really, landing in a heap because of a slight swell is pitiful although his dedication to finishing what he starts is admirable. Hopefully I’ll see you both very soon to test your tutelage. Love, Bela.” _

While Rhiannon started cackling and Alistair stopped hiding his smile in the face of his wife’s hilarity, Anders tried to hide his shock. Alistair and Isabela? Apart from a partially overheard conversation years ago there had never been any suggestion that the pair before him weren’t utterly devoted to each other, and somehow it was worse that it was Alistair doing the cheating, Alistair who was the epitome of everything honourable and decent, who had supposedly given up the love of his life for his duty to his country. Rhiannon, of course, missed nothing; she pushed herself from her chair, gave her husband a quick, but passionate, kiss and murmured, “You can tell me all about it later.” in his ear before grabbing Anders’ hand and pulling him out of the chair.

“You can show me what you’ve been working on, I don’t have long to be here, neither does Alistair. Sweetheart,” she threw back over her shoulder, “Get whatever you need together, we’ll have to leave this afternoon, I’ve covered for you as much as I can but there’s things brewing.” As she drew the mage out of the room, Alistair started cursing and throwing things back into bags he had hoped to leave empty for at least a week.

The queen said nothing until they reached her office, still holding Anders’ hand, only dropping it to shut the door behind them. Her lips were pursed and her eyes flashed with annoyance as she turned to him.

“Don’t!” she said.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Anders protested. “I was just surprised.”

“You were judging,” she replied. “You have no right to judge Alistair for anything, none at all.”

“I know that, Reina, but I… I never thought…” He sat down in one of the armchairs, struggling to put the feelings in his head into words, afraid to say too much or too little. To understand how a man he idolised could be unfaithful to the woman he loved, how could he say that, to her, it was impossible.

She sat in the chair opposite, watching him. Anders could never keep his thoughts from his face, even years of being imprisoned in the Circle or hiding from templars had never taught him to hide his feelings. It was something she admired, how open he could be, how good and compassionate and how he could still share himself with a world that had done nothing but horrible things to him. The horrible thing he had done, the one black spot in his life, was nothing compared to the scars on his body or in his mind and she would have happily blown up every Chantry in Thedas if it would have saved him that pain. It was unfair, unjust, that she was honoured and applauded for her birth and the actions she had taken during the Blight, no matter how dark, while he was despised for his talents and one action had wiped out all the good he had done over the years. She knew Hawke had abandoned him, she read every letter before it was delivered to him, and she had no sympathy for the woman who had clawed her way into the nobility through violence and playing factions off against each other but turned against this man for one awful mistake, a mistake she was not certain he had even made, at least not in his right mind. She and Hawke were a pair, vicious, manipulative, amoral, but Rhiannon did not abandon her friends, no matter what.

She realised she had been watching him too long, she should have spoken already. She forced her voice into gentleness, never able to bear the hurt look he got when she spoke harshly to him, he who could take any torture thrown at him except the anger of those he loved.

“I manipulated Alistair into marrying me, I used his sense of honour and duty against him, forced him to give up everything that meant something to him for the good of this country. You must know that by now?” Anders looked at her and shrugged, on some level he had known, there had been rumours that their engagement announcement had seemed as much a shock to Alistair as to anyone else at the Landsmeet, but he had set them aside as just that, rumours. She continued, “Being a Grey Warden was his life and I took that from him. He loved an apostate mage, very deeply, and I took that too.” He didn’t look surprised, so he had been listening to that argument with Wynne, she had suspected as much. “We present a united front, we have to, more for his safety than anything else, a bastard king without an heir in an unstable and bankrupt country is an easy target for those who think they have a better claim. I give him legitimacy through my rank and status, so he can be the king Ferelden desperately needs, and that is all he owes me, to be king.”

“I thought you loved each other?” Anders looked at her as if his whole world had been shaken and she knows it probably has, in spite of his own salacious history, Anders was a romantic, always seeking true love, and Alistair was his hero.

“We do.” she shrugged. “He’s my best friend, we would never have survived the Blight without him. He sees things in me I’m not even sure exist, a goodness that I think died with my parents, he’s convinced it’s still there. And he’s not soft, he’s strong, he does what’s needed, even when it hurts him, I admire that. And he’s extremely attractive,” she smirked slightly, knowing that Anders, like Zevran, had always been slightly disappointed that Alistair wasn’t more flexible in his sexuality. Then she became serious again, “But we’re not ‘in love’, we never have been. And he left here to find his father but ended up having to kill him, or let him die, he hasn’t told me the details yet, so if he found a bit of solace in Isabela’s generous arms, who am I to deny him? Who are you?”

Anders looked at her, uncertainty written across his face, as if he weren’t sure how he felt. Then he said something that truly surprised her. “What about you? If Alistair gave everything up, didn't you?"

She laughed, softly. "How could I have given up anything? My family were dead, Fergus didn't make it back till after everything was set in stone. I was trained to take Anora's place and I did, if not in the way my parents planned. I have a handsome and kind husband and the power to help my country, what else could I want?"

She knew what he meant, a life, a love of her own, but she didn't want to hear it, so she moved quickly on. "What you did in Kirkwall is changing the world, if mages could win their freedom, could live like everyone else, perhaps one could be queen." Anders leaned back, stunned. "I was to take Anora's place to bear an heir for Cailan, Alistair could put me aside on the same grounds in favour of a woman who has already borne him a son, but only if mages are free. You will not speak a word of this to anyone, especially not Ally, but to meet his son, to acknowledge him, and his mother, Alistair's true love. I would move the heavens themselves to give him that."

“But that might take years,” Anders protested.

“Which is why we need those years,” she said firmly. “Avernus will continue to work on the Blight cure but I have a different mission for you. You will find a way to reverse the Joining, to stop the Calling that takes us too quickly, to undo our sterility. I want to see Alistair die an old man, in his bed surrounded by children and grandchildren. I want you to live long enough to see mages free, to see a mage queen I hope, for Nate and Bethany to have a throng of troublemakers running all over the Vigil. You can do that for us, Anders, I know you can.”

Hearing his name from her lips was too much, hearing her hopes and dreams for all of them, Anders surged forward, his knees hitting the floor before her chair as his lips crashed against her, his hands cradling her precious face. She froze for a second, then leaned into the kiss, passion melting into a soft submission he could not have expected from his queen of fire, lips and tongues moving together slowly, sweetly, his hands still on her soft cheeks and hers on his as they leaned into each other. How much time passed, neither of them could have said and when they broke apart it was with a sigh and only to look in each other’s eyes. Nothing was said, neither even attempted to form words, for long minutes they were still, his hands still on her face, her fingertips lightly tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth that twitched a little in a gentle smile. Eventually she leaned back, taking back her hands, leaving his face feeling bare and over-sensitive, as if her touch was the only thing protecting him. Her expression was open, softer than he had ever seen it, she looked as she might have before the Blight, when she was no more than a young noblewoman, surrounded by family and friends. She moved forward, out of her chair and onto her knees, facing Anders, her hands coming up to touch his face once again, stroking his cheek with dagger-callused hands and drawing him closer into another sweet kiss, this one edged with the promise of passion as her hands travelled down his arms, then across his chest, wrapping around him, his hands moving in parallel until they were entwined together, unhurried, enjoying touch and taste and a feeling of complete peace. Neither noticed the office door opening as Alistair walked in, stopping at the sight of the two kneeling together, oblivious to the outside world. He smiled as he watched them for a moment, then withdrew, closing the door silently behind him. Their time in the Peak might be short, but he would not spoil it for them. He went down to the kitchens, to collect supplies for the trip home and asked Sara, one of the kitchen girls, to send food up to Rhiannon’s office in an hour or so. Finally he headed up to the library to pass the time, intending to pick up a book he had left half read on his last visit, but instead he found himself staring out of the window and thinking about the last few weeks and everything that had occurred in Antiva. When he heard the passage of the kelsana, he put away his unopened book and made his way up to eat with the pair before duty separated them once more.

  
  
  



	11. Whispers

The day it started, no one noticed. It was a whisper, a half-remembered hint of a long forgotten song, barely heard and easily ignored. The faint itch of discomfort disappeared in the trials of a normal day and beside the usual terrors of the night was barely there at all. The next day was the same, and the next, and the next, whispers barely singing in the back of the mind, a note or two hummed as they went about their work, a sweet tune picked up in passing on the way to smithy or bath-house; by the time it began to be noticed, no one could have said when it began; by the time the worried spoke of it to their friends, it had been singing for days, weeks. The older wardens were not surprised, not at first, not until more and more came to their Commanders and it became clear. The Calling had begun - for all Grey Wardens.

The Warden-Commander’s of Ferelden and Orlais called their wardens together, trying to calm the anxious, to boost the fatalistic. Missives were sent to Weisshaupt, to Ansburg, to any Warden bases that might still be active, as well as messages to recall the solitary wardens who wandered the continent, content to be alone, looking out for worthy recruits or simply enjoying a freedom few could claim. Finally it became clear that no warden in Ferelden or Orlais was spared. The Orlesian Commander, Clarel, called all her people to her side, seeking desperately for an explanation, or a cure, and rumours began to spread of a new advisor to the Grey, one who offered Clarel a way to ensure the wardens would not die out while two old gods remained undiscovered. But rumours they remained, as Clarel and her people disappeared without a trace, the dissolution of the Circles and the desertion of the Seekers and the Templars making the absence of a relative handful of outcasts and loners unnoticed among the great and powerful of Orlais. 

By contrast, the Ferelden wardens were few, beyond Rhiannon’s close friends and Leliana’s agents; only a handful had undergone the Joining since Bethany had transferred to the Vigil after being saved by Stroud and his men in the Deep Roads. That handful were now dispersed as messengers while their leaders gathered in Soldier’s Peak to discuss their response to the crisis. 

“We’ve heard nothing from Clarel since she suggested we join forces, it will be weeks before anyone gets to Ansburg and longer still to Weisshaupt. We need to make plans in the meantime, we can’t sit on our arses waiting to be saved.” Rhiannon paced the floor of the common room they had chosen to meet in. It was larger and more comfortable than her office, on a lower floor where the heat from the kitchens and Mikhael’s forge warmed the room even without the fire burning on the massive hearth. Large sofas and armchairs, overstuffed and covered with furs, sprawled in haphazard fashion around the room while a large oak table sat against the far wall, food and drink laid out and ignored while four pairs of eyes watched their Commander stride back and forth across the room like a caged tiger. Nathaniel and Bethany sat on one of the couches, holding hands, clinging together hard enough to hide the tremble in Bethany’s fingers, or Nate’s fidgeting as both struggled with an enemy they could not fight. Anders sat curled up in one of the chairs, tapping long fingers on the arm, brows furrowed as he pondered the song ringing in his head and the work he had done for this event, come far too soon. Alistair could not sit, instead he stood at the hearth, staring into the flames as if ancient gods would send the answer in their depths. Finally, he looked around at his wife with eyes full of sorrow and said,

“What plans can we make against this, Rhi? You know what happens to wardens who fight their Calling, will we hide here until we are no better than ghouls? The end comes to us all…”

“Not all at once, it doesn’t,” she retorted, harshly. “Not to Wardens of twenty years and those of two.” She folded her arms and glared at him, understanding his pain, knowing it was not death, nor duty unfinished that caused the look in his eyes, but the knowledge that now he would never see his Morrigan again, would never lay eyes on the child whose existence had saved her own life. It hurt him, but it made her angry, she would not allow this to be the end.

“I’m not sure it is the Calling,” Anders said, quietly, flinching slightly as everyone turned to him.

Alistair was first to ask, “What do you mean?”

The mage shuffled slightly in his chair, avoiding eye contact with his friends as he rubbed his temples and tried to think past the never-ending singing in his head.

“The song, the whispers. Everything I’ve read suggests wardens inducted during a blight or who have prolonged contact with darkspawn have shorter lifespans, we were all inducted within two years of each other, we all have had close contact with darkspawn…”

“Ayren hasn’t, nor Dori, nor Peter, Ali, Martin…” Anders held up his hand to stop Rhiannon’s litany.

“I know, Reina,” His tone was conciliatory but still firm. It was hard enough to focus without interruptions. “I’m trying to say that it might be reasonable for us to start hearing it close together, if not all at once, there’s nothing to say it couldn’t be all at once. I’m the oldest of us by a fair bit, Beth’s youngest, you and Alistair were inducted during a Blight, if you take the Blight to be from the Archdemon awakening rather than the darkspawn emerging, Nate and I fought the awakened darkspawn with you but Alistair didn’t, there are a thousand combination but they only apply to us here, not to all the rest.” The others it did apply to were long gone, Velanna and Sigrun, Oghren and Justice, none of them wanted to say it but they all remembered their lost friends, wondered if any still lived, if they heard the song in their heads, or if they were all, indeed, dead in the Deep Roads.

“But this happened before, to me, to Wardens of different ages, different backgrounds, hearing the song in their heads, Called to the prison of an ancient darkspawn, controlled by him. The song became so loud, I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t stop listening to the whispers, to that thing. When it overwhelmed me, Justice took control, but even that didn’t work.” He whispered, ashamed, “We attacked Mari, and the others, Fenris and Varric. They managed to defeat us, make Justice retreat, break the song’s hold, mostly. It was horrible. I managed to keep it together after that, but only barely. We found the darkspawn and killed it and it just disappeared, the singing, the whispers, just gone.”

Bethany looked stunned, “But, I was there, I didn’t hear anything. You didn’t mention anything like that.”

“Mari didn’t want you worried. I didn’t hear it myself until we were inside the prison and then we killed it so it seemed pointless to mention it.” He avoided her eyes. He had asked them not to mention it, too ashamed and humiliated by how easily he had given in, and his friends had kept his weakness secret for him.

“You said you killed the darkspawn, and it only projected the Calling within a confined area? So how can this be happening, and so widespread?” Alistair demanded.

Anders rubbed his temples again and sighed. “The darkspawn had a name, Corypheus.” The other four frowned, even the talking darkspawn in Amaranthine had not had proper names, merely appellations like The Architect, The Mother, The Lost, The First. He went on. “It...he… insisted he was a magister, a priest of Dumat…”

“One of the Magisters Sidereal.” said Rhiannon, in hushed tones.

“He… it… reminded me of The Architect, the way it felt when he was around, but different. And The Mother spoke of being cut off from The Song.”

“But it was killed?” Now Nathaniel spoke, “You saw it killed?”

Anders nodded. “Not just killed, by the time we were finished it was in bits. Fenris actually started hacking the corpse into pieces and I had to burn it to ash before he would let us leave. One of the original evil magisters? I’m surprised he didn’t take the ashes to scatter a pinch every ten miles or so, just in case. But in the legends there were seven, one for each of the old gods, the high priests of those gods. I’ve wondered, sometimes, if the Architect was another. If there are two, there could be more, possibly another five out there. And if one, imprisoned and shackled by blood magic, could control an army of dwarves to travel to Kirkwall and to Ansburg to kidnap Mari and Beth, could control Grey Wardens and even a Fade Spirit, what could six of them together do? The Architect intended to use us to cure the darkspawn of their obsessive search for the Old Gods, what if he found his friends and they did this to draw us all in?” He slumped back in the chair, exhausted by the possibilities that had kept him awake the last few nights while he waited for his friends to join him.

“There’s a lot of ‘what ifs’ in there, Anders,” Alistair said, and the mage nodded, it was all speculation, no evidence beyond what he had felt inside that prison.

“But it does make sense.” said Rhiannon, slowing her stride long enough to pour Anders a cup of water from one of the jugs. “At least as much sense as every warden in a defined area suddenly getting their Calling all at once, we don’t even know if anyone outside Orlais and Ferelden are hearing this, if they aren’t it would almost confirm that it wasn’t a real Calling at all.”

“So what do we do?” asked Bethany. “Do we hunt ancient magisters? Where would we start?”

Rhiannon shook her head. “I wouldn’t have a clue. The dwarves have reclaimed Kal Hirol, and the place we met the Architect was really where the far end of it met an old silverite mine. It might be worth seeing if anything remains of the Architect’s laboratory, but I don’t expect he would still be there. There are the Tevinter ruins where we fought the Mother but I’m sure we would have had incursions into Amaranthine if there were darkspawn gathering there still. Apart from that there’s the prison outside Kirkwall, but it sounds like it was pretty much cleared out, or however many thousands of miles of Deep Roads. Assuming they would even be in the Deep Roads. We need a different approach.”

“Have you heard anything from Leliana?” asked Alistair. Rhiannon shook her head. 

“She has nothing to give us, between the Orlesian civil war and the mages and templars, I don’t want to put any more strain on her. I wrote to Zev too, but he’s gone to ground again so who knows. Hunting mythical darkspawn is an impossible dream, at least for now.”

“But you have a plan anyway,” Nate spoke up, watching her carefully, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched her. “I know that look, Pup, it’s the one that got Fergus and me birched or mucking out the stables on too many occasions. Bryce always blamed us for letting you lead us astray.” Which was true, although the far wiser Eleanor was quick to point out that most of the worst trouble was always Rhiannon’s idea, leading to days of being kept inside with long lessons in how a lady should deport herself. 

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Nate.” The old nickname warmed her heart, but Rhiannon ignored the urge to hug him in favour of the careless tone she knew drove him wild. She had to stay focused and crying all over her friends because she missed her parents was not staying focused. “I don’t know why you make up these dreadful stories.” She became serious again. “At my request, Anders has been trying to find a cure for the Calling, a cure for the Joining in fact. He’s researching a way to reverse what was done to us all. I think we need to concentrate on that. If we can’t find the source of this false Calling, maybe we can stop it anyway.”

Nate and Beth just stared at her in shock, but Alistair turned his gaze on Anders, who started fidgeting again under the King’s glare.

“It’s only a start,” he said, defensively, “Barely begun. Our Blight serum is showing promise, so I’m starting with that as a basis, but there’s a lot of work to do. And only so many people I can contact for books and so forth. But there was a rumour that a group of Grey Wardens were cured of the taint a few decades ago.” He was hesitant to mention it, since the rumours involved Alistair’s father, and he knew from the look on the other man’s face that he was aware of the story.

“Not just rumours,” said Rhiannon, now talking directly to Alistair. “Leliana confirmed it for me. The Grand Enchanter Fiona was once a Warden. There are no details but she left the Wardens and entered the Circle after.”

“The Grand Enchanter who recently wrote asking for sanctuary within Ferelden?” 

She nodded. “I want to speak to her anyway, but that’s regardless of whether you allow her and her mages to stay.”

He looked at Anders, then Bethany. “Mages shouldn’t have to run to be free, they shouldn’t be caged because of something they  _ might _ do.” He smiled at Beth, especially. “They shouldn’t have to keep their whole family in hiding just to  _ have _ that family.” He turned to Anders. “Or to be conscripted into the Wardens to escape execution or Tranquility because they want to be free.” Finally, he turned back to his wife. “I already offered her a place in Redcliffe, with her people free to move about the Hinterlands. It’s not ideal but there are still so many places virtually empty out there. Plus, with this talk of a conclave…”

“You think the conclave will be in Ferelden?” Anders sounded unsure. “I assumed Val Royeaux, or somewhere…” He trailed off, not quite wanting to say the word ‘significant’.

“Important,” Rhiannon finished for him. Val Royeaux is a bad choice, after the fiasco at the White Spire, Cumberland or Kirkwall too associated with either mages or templars. The Divine will choose somewhere significant, not to the mages or the templars or even the Chantry, if she has any sense, but somewhere that binds them all. I’d lay odds on it being at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Even most mages are still Andrastrian, whether they believe in the Chantry or not. It’s in the centre of southern Thedas but not technically in either Orlais or Ferelden, although an Orlesian claims it as part of his family's lands, granted during the occupation. It’s also a place with the most amazing sense of presence, a very real place of power, Andrastrian power. We almost had to drag Leliana away or she would still be kneeling before those ashes. I have no doubt that is where she’ll advise the Divine to hold her Conclave. If they ever get far enough along to set one up.” She wasn’t hopeful, even the templars she knew and liked tended to be rigid in their beliefs, indoctrinated from a young age; and the mages had every reason to be wary of a summons from the Divine, even couched as an invitation. Not to mention those on both sides who would inevitably use the situation for their own ends and to settle old scores. 

“I want to speak to Fiona and see where that leads.” She hesitated, avoiding Alistair’s eyes. “I also intend to go to Halamshiral.” He stiffened, knowing she meant to see Morrigan. “Then, I suppose it depends what they have to say, what I can find out.” She looked over at Anders. “I’ll send anything I find back to you. Nate, Beth, I need you to head out, go to Kirkwall, Bethy, if you know where your sister is, go to her. Just try to get away from all this.” She turned back to Alistair and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him as he leaned his head down onto her shoulder. “You need to stay here, love. Be King, protect Ferelden.” She nipped his arm lightly when she heard the muffled protest. “Yes, you do! You know you do! We can’t both go, sweetheart. I’ll write when I can. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

Rhiannon stepped back and looked at the four of them and smiled. “Besides, no doubt I’ll come home covered in glory and with a whole new crew of dubious misfits to tarnish my reputation.” Her tone broke the tension and they ate and drank, talking about the various miscreants Rhiannon had managed to collect along the way, avoiding more serious topics, until they retired, one at a time, to find some rest before the dawn.


	12. The First Step

Alistair walked into the room deep in thought, barely waiting for Rhiannon to close the door behind them before he started stripping off, pouring enough water from the ewer beside the fire to wash perfunctorily before climbing into bed, looking without really watching as his wife did the same. 

In the years since their marriage, he had grown to love his sharp edged lady. She was a skilled fighter, a clever tactician and a consummate politician with no more conscience in her manipulations than she had in sacrificing a pawn in chess. She gave her heart to precious few and sometimes he thought only those few were real to her, real people with real feelings. He reflected sometimes on the two loves of his life - Morrigan seemed as cold as ice but used it to hide a warm and loving heart, bruised by an uncaring mother, Rhiannon seemed warm and friendly, sweet voiced with a kind smile for nobles and peasants alike, but inside she was as cold as the Void; what they had in common was what they needed from Alistair, to be able to be themselves, to have nothing expected of them, no role to play. Alistair had realised even before he was dumped in the chantry that no matter how hard he tried, he would never please those around him, so he had stopped trying to be anything but himself, fumbling and gauche as that was, and in him both women had found someone with whom they could be completely themselves, and loved him for it.

He could tell by how rigidly she lay in bed that Rhi was thinking hard, so he drew her in, sliding one arm under her neck and shoulders while folding the other under his own head. She rarely touched him unless she wanted to have sex, touch was one of her weapons, used carefully, calculated to worm through barriers and she never wanted him to feel that she was using that on him. Instead, Alistair held her as often as possible, offering her the comfort of his arms, needing nothing in return, content with a comfortable nothing between them that made no demands, required no reciprocation. She softened slowly against him, relaxing against his skin with a soft sigh.

“You should take them with you,” he said, gently. He ignored the sudden return of tension in her body and continued. “You have far to go and you’ll need the help. I can’t go with you, I know that, but I don’t want you to be alone.” Truthfully, he didn’t want her to go at all. Hadn’t she done enough for Ferelden? For the Grey Wardens? For the whole of Thedas, really? But there was no point going down that road, his Rhi would happily take the fate of the world on her shoulders and let it crush her - overcompensation for what she thought was missing in herself. All he could do was make sure she wasn’t alone as she did it, and as much as he wanted to disappear with her and leave Eamon to pick up the pieces, that wasn’t who he was, so he wanted her to have someone she trusted - someone he trusted. Nate had known her since they were children together, loved her like a sister, and Bethany had gone from being completely intimidated by the Hero of Ferelden to being a friend second only to Morrigan and Leliana. Rhi didn’t make female friends easily, she didn’t trust the noblewomen who waited on her and stayed distant from her subordinate grey wardens, respecting but not befriending them. Bethany was the exception. 

She had turned fully into his embrace, his arm wrapping round so he could stroke the long, soft, crimson hair that tumbled down her back, the texture almost indistinguishable from the silk shift she wore, and she mumbled into his chest. “I’d rather they were safe, away from Ferelden, Orlais, the other wardens. I want them kept out of this whole thing.”

He chuckled lightly, earning himself a pinch on the inside of his arm. “Hey! That was uncalled for.” He shifted slightly so he could rub where she had nipped, then moved her back in towards him, ignoring the hint of warmth as her body moved against his. “I want them to be safe too. But no warden is safe right now, not with the Calling in our heads.” He sighed, wishing the song would quieten so he could think of the right words to use. Sentiment and emotion would not sway his queen, only cold logic. “An archer and two mages with complementary talents wouldn’t go amiss, although I’d recommend finding a warrior to escort you too. You’ll be going to Redcliffe first…” She muttered something about Anders and he huffed in agreement. “If you’d let me finish - you should ask Anders and Nate to scout the road to Orlais. Beth can go with them, or go to Redcliffe with you and restock supplies while you talk to Teagan and Fiona. Nate has contacts all over Orlais as well as the Free Marches, I’ll send messages to Leli and Mor to smooth your way. You’ll almost certainly end up going to Weisshaupt so unless you learn the language quickly you’ll need Anders - I mean Josef. He’s spent the last year learning everything he can about the place. It makes sense, Rhi, you know it does.”

She turned from him and sat up, knees up almost at her chest with her arms curled around them as she looked at him with a mix of misery and love. “You have it all thought out, don’t you?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied. “If by ‘all thought out’ you mean making it up as I go so my beautiful wife doesn’t get abducted by bandits before she can save us all for the fourth or fifth time.” Her eyes creased slightly and he knew he had won.

“Hmph, I have no doubt you would tell everyone the bandits would get sick of me and bring me back before anyone noticed I was gone.”

“No, love. I already used that one when you ran off to Kirkwall to save Anders. Damn it! Josef! Anyway, I’d tell them one of the Avvar carried you off to make you his bride and we should expect a herd of mountain goats to be delivered within the week.” She laughed and uncurled herself, leaning back in to give him a light kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Only a herd of goats? I’m worth more than that!”

“Two herds of goats, twenty deer and a high dragon, I won’t accept anything less!” He said dramatically, as Rhiannon giggled beside him, wriggling as she started to nibble on his sensitive ear, the mood changing as her small hands swept down his chest to rub gently over his nipples, drawing a small groan as she pinched lightly before moving gracefully to straddle his hips, silk slipping against his stirring cock, prompting him to draw her down into a playful kiss. They both sank into it, soft, gentle movements, tongues barely sliding against each other, fingers lightly grazing skin, hips slowly undulating, desire building, unrushed, unhurried, enjoying sweet touches. It could be months before they were together again, it could be years; Rhi slid back, kisses falling like summer rain along his body as she moved down, drowning the song in their heads with touch, taking him, half hard, into her mouth and feeling him rise against the slip and glide of her tongue, filling her mouth, his tip dripping hot musk into her throat as he watched her through heavy lidded eyes, his cock disappearing between her red, pouting lips, the length of her body stretched between his legs, her kneeling position curving her back and raising luscious buttocks in the air, exposing her damp slit to the cool air of the room and making her sigh around him, the vibrations singing along him. The sight of her was too much, her ass in the air, mouth stretched around him, veridium eyes never leaving his, his eyes closed and his head fell back as he came, filling her throat with his seed, feeling her swallow around him again and again, drawing his orgasm out, the song disappearing into the Void as he floated on a wave of love and lust, his darling slipping her body back upwards along his, kissing salt and sour into his mouth alongside her own taste of honey and spice, coaxing him back to earth as she whispered her love into him and he swallowed her words down with the mingled taste.

“Did I kill you, love,” she said, leaning up so she could look down into his eyes.

“You did,” his lips twitched, “You’ve sucked the life from me, you witch.” The words were wrong as they fell from his lips and pulled at recent memories, still sharp, of a witch dying on his sword and life draining from his father and she felt the tension gathering and pulled him towards her, soothing him with her skin and her mouth singing of love and hope and plans for a future they might never have until tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and gentleness became pain.

Suddenly, he twisted, flipping her onto her back and staring down at her, descending on her mouth with bruising force, feeling her push back, shifting with the mood, letting him pin her arms to the bed while he took her strength, her defiant will, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him into her as he bit down on the curve of neck and shoulder, driving into soft, slick heat until the head of him rammed against the firm flesh at the entrance to her womb, pounding against it, tilting her hips upward with one hand under curved buttocks, fingertips digging deep into muscle, the other still holding both fine-boned wrists above her head, forcing her back to arch, bringing pert breasts within reach of his searching, pulling, sucking, biting mouth, drawing cry after cry from her until she screamed his name, tight heat convulsing against him, drawing everything out of him and this time they were both soaring as the world melted in bliss, as he roared his anger and sorrow and love and fear, filling her with his pain and his hope, shifting as he felt her relax to bring deft fingers against her swollen pearl, slick with their juices, flicking and rubbing as he moved still within her, finally pinching it hard, the shock of pain bringing her to her peak once more with a shrill scream, pulling the last drops of his seed, forcing him up once more, his final orgasm leaving him dry and shaking as he collapsed onto her.

As exhausted as he was, he forced himself to roll over before she could complain of the heavy pressure on her, pulling her back into his arms so they finished where they began, her head on his arm, his hand tangled lightly in her silken hair, hers lying gently on his chest.

“Take them,” he said, pleading with her now. “I wasn’t alone, I can’t let you be alone either.”

He could feel her smile, muscles shifting against his arm, sleepy warmth in her voice. “For you, love. Anything.” Knowing she would be safe with those they both loved, Alistair followed his wife into dreams.


	13. The Sunlight Through the Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on 'Anders' is mostly referred to as 'Josef' when it is about him, 'Anders' when talking about his past or from people who think he is dead.

The four wardens had left Soldier’s Peak at the beginning of Drakonis, with Spring in full swing as they rode across the Bannorn, avoiding the North Road with it’s frequent traffic in favour of smaller roads and hunting trails. Despite the constant singing in their heads, pushing them on, they rested frequently, knowing the hardships that would come as they entered more desolate lands and the strain it would place on their mounts. 

As they rode along, Josef realised that he had never travelled like this, never ridden through the countryside in the company of friends, never taken time to enjoy the sight of growing fields and woodlands carpeted in wildflowers. Before the wardens he had been too concerned with running, with finding large towns and cities to disappear into, the most successful being the time he spent in the Pearl in Denerim. There had always been the urgency of staying ahead of the Templars and when they inevitably found him the constant stress of smites and kicks had made him oblivious to anything around him but the melancholy of being dragged back to his prison. He had travelled with the Wardens, but only around Amaranthine and much of that time had been spent in the Deep Roads, fighting darkspawn, or traipsing around the boggy pit that was the Blackmarsh. His trips to other circles for the Wardens had been in the company of Templars and too stressful for him to truly enjoy, his fear borne out by an attack that made him flee back to Vigil’s Keep alone, passed off by the templars as a ‘disappearance’ on his part. Even his travels to Sundermount or the Wounded Coast had been for a purpose, short trips filled with violence for the most part, the occasional quiet ride with Hawke as they foraged for healing herbs that Josef could rarely afford to buy. He had never spent day after day travelling through the countryside, their goal far off as they laughed and chatted and worked together to make camp. He had never sat night after night beside a fire, listening to stories of childhood pranks or trivial gossip, laughing freely and enjoying the light touches of loved and trusted friends. He had observed before that the human mind could not stay at a fever pitch for long, the most stressful of situations became normal if it lasted long enough and so, though the song never stopped singing in their heads, though their quest was never far from their minds, there was time to see the world around him, to revel in a freedom he hadn’t known he lacked.

When they reached the north tip of Lake Calenhad the group split. Rhiannon and Bethany took the road south to Redcliffe, while Nathaniel and Josef followed the top curve of the lake, ignoring the looming Tower that, empty and abandoned, stood its silent watch over passing travellers. They would skirt Orzammar, following the main highway along the edge of the Frostbacks into Orlais. The women would take a different path, cutting through one of the high passes and across the Dales. They had agreed to meet in Collinverd, a small village a few miles beyond Halamshiral. While they waited Nate would sift through the information he was collecting along the way so that when Rhiannon and Bethany arrived he would have some idea of what was happening, perhaps even some clue as to where the Orlesians wardens had gone.

For his part, Josef was simply enjoying the ride. The well travelled road saw few bandits and even those would not risk a confrontation with two well armed wardens. It was strange not to be wearing robes, the blue and silver leather armour Nate had brought for him fit like a glove and contained enchantments so fine that Josef suspected Sandal had done the work, which made him wonder if the Feddics had remained in Kirkwall or if they had returned to their native Ferelden to work for the wardens. Probably the latter since the armour was so obviously Wade’s work, as was the beautiful dragonbone staff also etched with runes in Sandal’s familiar style. He had never worn battlemage armour before, the set that had been commissioned for him at Vigil’s Keep had not been finished when he fled for Kirkwall, he had travelled in robes emblazoned with the griffon insignia, for all the protection it had offered him, and in Kirkwall he had found the feather covered coat in a box in Lirene’s shop and paid a dwarf to enchant it with the cheapest runes he could get. Now everything down to his smallclothes was made just for him, to the highest quality and in a strange way it made him feel special, part of something, cared for as he had never been before, not even when he had lived with Mari.

They stopped at the market outside of Orzammar to buy some supplies and Nate threw Josef a full coin pouch. “Get whatever ingredients you need, we’ll have time to make potions while we wait for the women at Collinverd.” The archer grinned, “You’ll need alcohol as well, make sure you pick up some of the good stuff while you’re at it.” Josef grinned back and made his way over to a stall displaying various herbs and other ingredients while Nate wandered off in search of a fletcher. Some of his hunting arrows had been flying off the true and he couldn’t work out why, having only enough skill to make field replacements when necessary.

They had agreed to meet back up at a booth that sold pies and ale and since Josef arrived first, he was buying. By the time Nate appeared the pies were cool enough to eat and Josef was already halfway through one, grease dripping down his fingers as he savoured the spiced minced lamb and crisp pastry after almost two weeks of trail rations and the occasional roasted rabbit. Dwarven ale was something he normally avoided but the tankard in front of him was filled with a smooth golden brew with no musky hint of deep mushroom. Two coins were sitting on the barrel beside three pies and two tankards, one with Alistair’s face staring up, the other with the insignia of Ferelden’s monarchs visible. Nate grabbed one of the pies and bit into it, careful not to spill grease down himself as Josef had.

“Seriously, Josef?” he said, “You’d think you hadn’t eaten in weeks.”

Josef just shrugged. He pointed down at the coins. “I haven’t seen a Ferelden coin in years, when I left they all still had Cailan on them.” He picked up the one with the insignia facing up, a stylised combination of the two monarch’s initials. “Why does this say A and E?” He looked at Nate, who started laughing. He washed the pie down with a draught of ale before answering.

“I didn’t realise you didn’t know, although I should have. She didn’t even tell Alistair until the wedding. He was a bit surprised to be married to Lady Elissa Eleanor Rhiannon Maretha Cousland.” Nate grinned as Josef grimaced at the overly formal name. “Exactly, that’s the face she makes when she hears it trotted out. If you value your balls, don’t call her Elissa. She says it sounds like someone trying to call their pet snake. Annoying her with it was funny until she put snakes in our packs when we went camping. One slipped out while we were riding and sent Fergus’ horse crazy, thankfully the horse was ok but Fergus ended up with a broken leg and Rhi was working in the scullery until it was healed enough for him to ride again.”

“In the scullery?” Josef was surprised. Few nobles seemed to discipline their children at all and certainly not with menial work.

“Eleanor’s idea probably, Bryce would have had her confined to quarters or something equally ineffectual, Eleanor knew exactly how to punish her daughter. She still hates doing dishes, Ally told me she did almost all the cooking the entire time they were on the road, just so someone else would have to wash up. Luckily her old nurse became the castle’s head cook, old Nan could make a banquet out of anything and she taught her well.” Nate looked thoughtful. “I wonder if she knows Nan’s clootie recipe, no one made it like her. Anyway, official documents, laws, coins and the like are all signed Elissa but nothing else.”

“Hmm,” Josef finished off his second pie, grabbing a handkerchief from his pouch to wipe his hands and chin. “I sometimes forget I knew her for such a short time, not even a year.”

Nate looked at him, speculatively. “I think we all forget that, sometimes. You two just seemed so close, from the very beginning. I haven’t seen her so at ease with someone since… well, not for a long time. When you left, she closed back down again.”

Josef grunted. “So I’ve been told. She certainly hasn’t opened back up to me.”

“Did you expect her to? You made yourself an abomination and ran off to the Free Marches instead of going to Denerim and letting her fix everything. Instead she had to get Zev to dispose of Caron while she mourned your death. You’re lucky she didn’t just let the Champion kill you, or do it herself.”

The mage grunted again, his eyes darkening. He gathered up the tankards to take back to the stall and Nate watched him go, silently kicking himself for mentioning Kirkwall. Any reminder of his life as Anders, or Hawke, or the Chantry explosion, sent Josef spiralling into darkness, he would be lucky to get the man to eat or sleep or even talk to him again for a week or more. He had always had dark moods, his mind scarred much as his body had been by repeated abuse. They had been lovers once, but Josef had never really let him in, rejecting his embrace when the nightmares took him, ending it when Caron brought Rolan and his cronies to Vigil’s Keep, when he locked himself in his room for days on end, emerging only when directly ordered. Nate had fallen head over heels for the confident, cocky mage and had genuinely mourned his passing, but he knew they would never have lasted even if Josef had stayed at the Keep. He didn’t know how to deal with the moods and the silences, frustration turning to anger until he wanted to beat sense into his thick skull. No, Nate had never known how to be what Josef needed, even when he had thought himself in love with him. Beth was even tempered, open in her moods and painfully honest at times but they understood each other. He growled and took himself off to get more ale. Fuck Josef and his moods, he had said nothing that wasn’t true, the man would just have to work it out himself.

Josef hadn’t really expected Nate to follow him. He hadn’t wanted him too. Nathaniel always wanted to talk, to thrash things out, he had never appreciated his own need for silence. They had camped just beyond the pass leading to Orzammar but as he crossed the great stone bridge he walked off the path and into the woods, boots crunching on the layer of pine needles as he moved downhill. He could hear the rushing of a waterfall in the distance and he shifted his direction to head towards the sound of water. Eventually the trees thinned into a clearing on the edge of a great river, water pouring out of a crack in the side of the mountain and dropping into a deep gorge. The weak sunlight sparkled through the streaming liquid, breaking into rainbows that shimmered and hypnotised the watching warden. The sound of running water settled him, dancing colours scintillating across the foam where falling water hit the pool deep below. He was close enough to feel the spray on his face, chilling hot cheeks as he found a boulder to perch on.

He had forgotten, for just a little while, he had allowed himself to feel normal. Justice was long gone and he grieved, as he had grieved for Karl in the first few years, but he had felt a little relieved too. In killing Karl he had set him free, saved him from the horrors of living as a mockery of what he had been, and in some ways Mari had done the same for Justice. He had turned his friend into an empty shell of himself and then he had filled that shell with rage and pain, channelling the depths of his hatred of the injustices in the Gallows, in Darktown, in the whole of the rotten, corrupted city, funnelling it all into his friend until all that was left of Justice was the dark core of Vengeance. He had saved Karl after the templars corrupted him and then he had corrupted Justice until only Mari could save him. In his last moments, as Josef lost consciousness, he had thought he felt Justice again, a hint of blue light shining in the darkness, but then it was gone, oblivion overcoming him before he could be sure, before he could know if Justice had found himself once more, at the end.

He had put it all aside these last weeks, joining in the camaraderie as if he deserved to be part of it, as if he wasn’t the murderer of hundreds, as if he wasn’t the reason thousands more were dying all over Thedas. He had travelled through the countryside and drank in its beauty as if he had a right to it, as if he was part of the blessing of nature instead of apart and accursed. What a fool he was.

He had no idea how long he sat there, staring at the sunlight streaming through the trees, bouncing off water droplets and dancing across the roaring foam. As the sun moved it created new patterns, shimmered in different ways, becoming warm and golden before shading towards red. By the time Nathaniel found him the light had almost gone and what there was had become cold and white, no longer dancing but in some ways more beautiful than the lively, happy light of the day. Moonlight only reflected life, it had no life to give itself, peaceful and quiet as the grave as even it began to fade into the darkness.

“Fucking Maker, do you know how long I’ve been looking for you, you bastard?”

He didn’t even blink at the sudden, loud profanities, was so deep inside himself he barely heard them, barely felt the iron grip that appeared on his arm, tight enough that it would leave a bruise later.

“Shit, you’re freezing. Who the fuck decides to hide on top of a fucking mountain.” The tugging broke through slightly, more than just a buzzing annoyance, and he glanced up at the archer glaring down at him then looked back to the water.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, tonelessly. “You should get back before someone steals everything.”

Nathaniel swore, “I’m not leaving you here to mope, Josef, you’ll freeze to death.” He started pulling again until he annoyed Josef enough to shoot a warning flash of lightning into his hand.

“Stop it, Nate.” 

“Shift your skinny arse back to the tent or I’ll shift it for you, Warden!” It wasn’t his friend Nate who spoke, this was the voice of the Warden-Constable, the voice of Nathaniel Howe, Lord of Vigil’s Keep. It was a voice of command and duty and it spoke to something Josef had long forgotten, the sense of being part of something more. He had been alone for so long, even when he was surrounded by people, even while he lived in Mari’s house, slept beside her, plotted to betray her for his cause and her protection. Since the age of 12 he had only known one home and that for less than a year, but that voice still called to him in a way he couldn’t avoid. With a sigh he stood and turned to Nathaniel, then started as he was pulled into a hug so tight he could hardly breathe.

“I thought you had wandered off a cliff or fallen in a gorge or just frozen to death, you bastard. Don’t do that to me again!” Now the warden had gone and it was Nate who was hugging him, whose voice was breaking with emotion. Not the Nate of now, who still resented Josef’s years of silence, who comforted Bethany after the destruction of Kirkwall. The was the Nate who had loved him, who had held him when the nightmares came, had stood beside him raining death and destruction in the Deep Roads, who had tried to protect him from Rolan and who had mourned his death. He melted into the embrace, still familiar after all these years, pressing into hard muscle and strength. There were no barriers against this Nate so he allowed himself to be directed back along the path, away from the water that had drowned out the Archdemon’s song for a while, towards the small camp where a fire crackled, a pot of stew left slightly to the side where it would stay warm but would not burn and a small tent off to the side promised more warmth and rest. By the time they reached the camp Josef had come back to himself enough to feel the chill, and the ache in his bones from sitting in one place for hours. Passively he sat when Nate pushed him down beside the fire, took the bowl of stew in nerveless hands and held it for a while before finally beginning to eat. All the while Nate watched him, his expression a familiar mixture of fear, frustration, anger and love.

“Why do you do this?” He said, quietly. “It was a stupid comment, I didn’t even mean it. Was it really worth punishing me for hours over?” 

Josef looked at him, startled. “Why…” he coughed, his throat chilled and raspy. He took another spoonful of stew then washed it down with a gulp of the cider he had bought earlier to warm them in the mountains. He tried again. “Why would I punish you? You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Reina should have left me in Kirkwall. Mari should have killed me. I still don’t understand why they saved me. I don’t understand why you don’t just leave me here.”

He looked up to see Nate looking at him softly. “You really are a fool, Anders.”

“You shouldn’t call me that.” Josef weakly protested.

The archer ignored him. “They saved you because they love you, idiot. I carried you through a war zone because I love you. Bethany looked away from people she might have been able to help, because she loves you.”

“I’m not worth it, Nate. What have I ever brought anyone but pain?”

The soft gaze hardened. “Ask the mages you freed and sent to Ferelden what you brought? Ask the girls who had their babies in the Vigil and were able to keep them and raise them what you brought? Ask the families in Darktown, or the miners in the Bone Pit, or the slaves you helped free and then healed? Ask the people in Amaranthine who could walk safe because of the blood mages and criminals we cleared out, ask the soldiers you lifted rubble from when the walls of the Vigil came down, or Dworkin’s wife when the midwife couldn’t stop the bleeding and everyone thought she and the babe would die, or Alistair, who would have kept having seizures until there was nothing left of his brain to keep him alive, or Rhiannon, who would have watched her husband die in front of her when even Wynne couldn't save him? Ask Bethany, who could have died in the Deep Roads twice without you to save her?” His voice softened again. “Ask me, Josef. Ask me what you brought me? Someone to talk to when I couldn’t talk to anyone for the anger and guilt in me. Someone to hold me when the nightmares came. Someone to watch my back in the Deep Roads and bring me out safe. You brought me happiness, and joy, and love, and fucking fantastic sex.” Josef couldn’t help the laugh that burst out from him then and Nate grinned back. Then he spoke more gently than before. “You brought me Bethany, you saved the other half of my soul and made my life complete. You have brought far more to the world than pain, love. Kirkwall was the tip of a festering iceberg, the White Spire will be known as the true beginning of the war. Your name might be cursed by many, but it is blessed by those who have known you.” Josef hadn’t noticed Nate moving closer until his arms were wrapped around him and he knelt before him, face to face so he couldn’t hide from the sincerity in his eyes as he leaned in and placed a kiss on cold, chapped lips. For a moment the mage froze, uncertain, before he dropped his bowl and spoon so he could return the embrace and moved forward to deepen the kiss, mouth moving hesitantly against Nate’s, the flick of the rogue’s tongue prompting him to open to him, to allow the soft exploration of his mouth, to massage his tongue against Nate’s as their hands moved along the others arms.

Months before he had kissed Reina and it had been sweet and slow like this, an exploration, a discovery of each other. It had gone no further and had never happened again but he already knew that this would not end the same way. There was too much history, to much feeling, familiar warmth already pooling in his groin as Nate’s kiss became deeper, more demanding, as their hands began to roam further, his tracing the hard chest muscles under the leather jerkin while Nate’s pushed firmly against his spine, running fingers firmly from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his spine, before moving back up. 

Suddenly Josef pushed away. Nate’s eyes narrowed in on the swollen, red lips that said, “Wait!”

“I don’t want to,” Nate growled. 

“Bethany…”

“Can wait her turn.” Josef barely heard his words, the growling tone sending signals straight to his cock, bypassing his brain completely. Nate hissed in frustration. “She’s fine with it. If it wasn’t for Rhi, she’d have dragged you into her bedroll as soon as we left the Peak.”

“Rhi?”

“Well, I’m not fucking a girl I think of as a sister, am I? So Beth is welcome to keep Rhi warm all she likes while they’re in Redcliffe, or anywhere at all as long as I’m not there. But we’re not leaving her in the cold so the three of us can have fun. Assuming you even want that, Beth says she thinks you think of her as a little kid, maybe even the way I think of Rhi?”

“No,” Josef breathed. “I don’t think of her like that at all.” Before the Deep Roads he had thought of little other than Bethany, another source of guilt. His love for Mari had grown slowly, at least partially out of a shared grief over Bethany. Eventually it had been a true love, while Beth was relegated to a brief crush, a fantasy he would never have pursued of a girl so much younger than him, locked in the same box in his memory as Reina. But where his infatuation with Reina had always been that of a faithful worshipper at the foot of his Goddess, his dreams of Bethany were far more carnal. “Not sisterly at all.” He smiled.

Nate’s returned smile was savage, gleeful, as if he was already imagining the things they would do together and he moved back in, crushing Josef against him, lips moving forcefully while his tongue demanded and entrance that Josef allowed without pause, fire matching fire as sweetness disappeared into passion, the men pushing armour and cloth out of the way, forgetting the chill night in the heat of their bodies as they moved together, exploring once familiar territory, investigating new scars. Josef summoned grease to his hand and pulled Nate to him, one hand around both hard, thick cocks, slickly sliding up and down, flicking his fingers over the tip, mixing their own slick with the grease, becoming more and more frantic until Nate bit down on his shoulder and spurted all over their skin, the mixed pain and pleasure sending Josef over the edge, his own seed erupting like a volcano, mixing with Nate’s as he called his name, as he declared his love over and over again, until they collapsed together and he fell into an exhausted sleep.

When he woke his skin was clean and furs were piled on him while the smell of porridge wafted across the clearing. He pulled himself up to watch Nate crouched over the pot, dropping a handful of dried apples and nuts into it before stirring it again and ladling generous amounts into two bowls. The rest would be let harden for a treat along the trail, keeping for several days. He grabbed his clothes, putting them on quickly under the furs, trying to lose as little heat as possible, then stood and moved over to Nate, taking the bowl and giving a kiss in return, being rewarded with soft eyes and a smirk.

“Sleep well?” Nate started eating his own porridge with his eyes still firmly on Josef’.

“Mmm, yes.” The porridge was delicious and Josef was starving.

“Good. We’re heading into Orlais today, tonight we might even find a town with an inn.” Josef looked up at the wicked smile on Nate’s face and smiled back.

“Good.”


	14. A Simple Gesture

Horseshoes clattered across the wooden drawbridge, stopping briefly while the smaller of the two riders leaned over to talk to the knight who approached, startling him with a few words and a smile into waving vaguely in towards the main steps, where they dismounted and handed their horses off to the stableboys who appeared as if from nowhere. Both riders threw back their hoods to forestall further challenge, opening cloaks to expose light armour of blue and silver, and walked up the main stairs to the great doors of the keep, nodding to acknowledge the bowing guards and servants.

The Arl was enjoying an hour of peace in the library when the messenger finally found him to tell him of the visitors and he slammed his book shut, cursing the loss of a rare quiet afternoon and instructing the boy to have both visitors and food brought to his study. He stalked along the corridor, irritation turning to concern as he realised this wasn’t a meeting he had forgotten, that there had been no warning of the imminent arrival of two grey wardens, let alone his queen. When he reached the study he rummaged through the pile of papers looking for anything, any word from Rhiannon or Alistair that might have hinted that she was on her way.

“We didn’t send word.” The smooth, light voice penetrated his frantic search for anything that might have come from or mentioned his nephew. “Alistair’s fine, Teagan. He’s not why we’re here.” Teagan looked up at her, noting the dark circles stark against creamy skin, hair hacked short and a riot of crimson curls. Rhiannon smiled at him reassuringly and he relaxed, putting down the pile of papers and moving around the desk to grab his sort-of niece into a close embrace. She leaned into him, then pushed him away again and laughed. “Teagan, enough. I stink of horse and I’m hungry enough to eat bear. Let us get changed and have something to eat and I’ll tell you everything.” She gestured to the other warden and said, “Bethany Hawke, Nate’s mate. She can use Alistair’s room while we’re here. I already ordered tubs drawn on the way here.”

Teagan chuckled at her presumption and bowed to the mage. “Lady Bethany, you are welcome. Is Nathaniel well? Shall we expect him also?”

Bethany smiled at his courtliness and shook her head. “My thanks, my lord Arl.” She curtseyed, graceful despite her armour. “Unfortunately, my mate is on his way to Orlais, we intend to join him once our business here is done.”

Rhiannon clapped Teagan on the shoulder, “Your whiskey is safe for now, Teagan. This is a flying visit only. I need to speak to the Grand Enchanter.”

Teagan frowned. “Grand Enchanter Fiona spends most of her days at the Chantry. I’ll send for her if you like, but she has rooms here and generally returns for dinner.” He wanted to know the reason behind an unsolicited visit to the leader of the rebel mages, but he knew his queen. He would find out only if and when Rhiannon wanted him to know. He had often thought that if Bryce Cousland had to send his children abroad to finish their education, it would have perhaps benefited the nation if he hadn’t sent his daughter to Orlais. She had gone away a spoiled child and returned cold and manipulative, mistress of The Game and as much as that had saved them from the combination of Loghain and the Blight and kept Alistair alive while he learned to be King, it made her a dangerous and unpredictable quantity in a world that seemed to become more complex by the day. Queen, Arlessa and Warden-Commander, Rhiannon was the greatest power in Ferelden and the whole of Thedas knew it, and that much power in the hands of someone that he loved but could never bring himself to trust had made Teagan disquiet since the day the crown had been placed upon her head.

“The Chantry is an interesting place for a rebel mage to spend her days.” She said, cocking her head at him as if she would assess his next words for truth.

“Mother Eglantine is a learned woman, and a supporter of mage rights and the reformation of the circles. I believe they have long conversations and respect each other deeply. However, the Grand Enchanter, I am told, also spends long hours in contemplation and prayer. It cannot be easy to be at the head of the mage rebellion, it is not only the templars who despise and distrust mages. And there have been renegades on both sides causing trouble across the Hinterlands. As much as Fiona has tried to rein them in, no one can seem to find where they are hiding, too many have died trying. The rumours of a conclave exacerbate the tensions rather than relieving them since many on both sides, and those of us stuck in the middle, believe it is an opportunity to wipe out the mages once and for all. If I were she, I too might spend my days praying for my people.”

“As I recall, you spent your days leading your people to survive and your nights fighting.”

He nodded at her stern reminder of how they met. “And yet, I did a fair bit of praying too, Highness.”

At the title, Rhiannon sighed and looked at her fellow warden. “My title - now I am in trouble, Beth.” Bethany only shrugged her shoulders, seemingly amused by their interaction. “Fine, my lord Arl, we will wait to speak to the Lady Enchanter after dinner. Now, I have an appointment with a bath, so unless you’re offering to wash my back for me…” The twinkle of mischief that had drawn him to her in the beginning was back in place and he relaxed, laughing. It was no secret, among family at least, that his monarchs had other interests outside their marriage, but except for a brief unrequited infatuation during the Blight, Teagan had never felt inclined to become one of them, even if he could have betrayed Alistair’s trust in him. Instead, they lightly flirted and Teagan was one of the few nobles Rhiannon truly trusted. As he watched the women leave, he scrawled a quick note to be sent by raven, Whatever she was up to, no doubt his nephew would be glad to know his wife had arrived safely in Redcliffe. From her demeanour, Alistair may not get many more such reassurances before she returned to him.

\------

Dinner was served in the family dining room when there was no court or event to require the use of the Great Hall. It was a good sized room but decorated in the overly fussy Orlesian style that Isolde had preferred and Teagan had not cared enough to change since the previous occupants had moved to Denerim. He had changed little in the castle, his own rooms more austere with no wife to add cushions and flowers and suchlike, the rest still covered in Orlesian frippery that he barely noticed any more. The dining room at least had few flounces and frills, the darkness of the wood muting the ridiculously ornate carving on the furniture and the food was served on silver that had belonged to Redcliffe for generations, beautifully simple in the style of the early Storm Age.

Tonight there were only six at dinner. Teagan took his place at the head of the table opposite Rhiannon with Bethany at his left hand and Fiona on his right. Beside the Grand Enchanter sat Ser Perth, invited both as an old friend of the Queen and as Seneschal of Redcliffe, while Bethany had Teagan’s nephew, Connor, as her dinner partner. Connor had come with the rebels to Redcliffe, but he avoided the village as often as possible, keeping to his old rooms or to the library, reluctant to come face to face with those he had wronged as a child, no matter that few in the village blamed him for what had happened during the Blight. One of the first things Rhiannon had done after the Blight was to have rumours spread placing the blame for the boys possession square on the shoulders of Loghain and the blood mage Jowan, with a little left over for the Lady Isolde. With Loghain and Jowan both executed and Isolde all but withdrawn from public life, the gossips had little to add to the story and Connor’s disappearance into the Circle had effectively ended any discontent there might have been. But the boy had never been able to forgive himself, had seriously considered asking to be made Tranquil and since the dissolution of the Circles had tried to avoid conflict at all costs. Under Fiona’s tutelage he had gained confidence but even she avoided the question of whether he would have made it to his Harrowing if war had not come. But as reclusive as he had become, Connor would never pass up a chance to spend time with his ‘cousin’ as Rhiannon insisted he call her, and Teagan was happy to indulge one of the few things that brought his nephew joy.

Dinner passed in small talk and reminiscence, no politics, religion or other divisive topics were allowed at meal times. Bethany chatted lightly with Connor, who was entranced at talking to a woman who had been an apostate her entire life and begged her for stories about her friends in Kirkwall, confessing ‘The Tale of the Champion’ to be his favourite book. He was particularly interested in hearing about Varric himself, for of course the dwarf revealed little about himself in his book while giving entirely too much away about others, at least in the opinion of some of those others. Ser Perth asked about Aveline and Donnic, having known Aveline and her first husband, Wesley, but with a faint blush that made Beth think the handsome knight was also a reader of Varric’s other books. Even Fiona joined in the conversation and the time passed quickly while Bethany made sure to stay away from mention of Anders in the stories she told. When the final plates were cleared and both Ser Perth and Connor had excused themselves to their duties, Teagan stood and bowed.

“Ladies, I bid you goodnight. Rhi, the green sitting room has coffee and brandy set out and a fire laid, if that suits you? I want to get at least a little more work done tonight, since tomorrow is Quarterday and I’ll be in court all day.” Quarterday marked not only the day the rents and taxes were due but the day any Fereldan could present a petition directly to his lord seeking justice. As Arl, Teagan would only receive petitions from those who lived and worked in the castle or in Redcliffe itself, or those who were appealing the decisions of his Banns, but it would still take most of the day. 

Once they left the room, he turned in the direction of his study, while Rhiannon led the other women to a small, comfortable room near her own quarters. Whenever they stayed in Redcliffe, this was the room she and Alistair breakfasted in, the room they met with friends in, the room they adjourned to after dinner when they had the opportunity for quiet time. It was decorated in shades of green - not insipid pastel colours but in forest green and emerald, with gold and russet highlights that gave the room a warm, cosy feeling. Rhiannon sat in her usual chair beside the fire and indicated the one opposite to Fiona while Bethany poured coffee then settled herself on a chair slightly further away from the fire. For a few minutes the other two watched each other in silence, each sizing up the other. Fiona was just as expert in the game as Rhiannon and she knew she had the upper hand. The Queen of Ferelden had not sought her out for a quiet dinner as a stop on her journey, she wanted something from the mage and so she waited, content in the knowledge the younger woman would come to her.

For once, however, Rhiannon was not simply trying to gain the other hand. Something was bothering her about the elven woman, something in her movements or her looks, something she could not put a finger on but that she knew meant something important. She decided to jump right in.

“Were you a Grey Warden?” she asked, bluntly, hoping for a reaction even if she didn’t know what kind.

Fiona frowned, “Yes, I was. How did you…?”

“A friend told me. A friend who has been looking for specific information for me - information I hope you can help with?” Rhiannon looked her directly in the eyes, watching for the slightest flicker of emotion. “The Grey Wardens are hearing their Callings. All of them.”

She needn’t have worried about a reaction, the Grand Enchanter turned pale and gasped. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“All the wardens in Orlais and Ferelden, certainly,” Bethany interjected. “We are still waiting for word from farther afield.”

Fiona looked between the two women. “Then you…?” They nodded. “And King Alistair?” Rhiannon nodded again. The mage looked as if she would be sick and Rhiannon was quick to try to reassure her.

“”We’re not sure this is a true Calling.” She had already decided not to mention Josef, not even in passing. “It doesn’t sound like the Archdemon’s song I remember.” She took a deep breath before giving Fiona the story she had already decided on. “I met a darkspawn who could talk, not only that, he was intelligent. It was years ago, just after the Blight. He was trying to cure the darkspawn of their obsession with finding the Old Gods. His name was…”

“The Architect.” Fiona whispered.

Rhiannon frowned again. “Yes. He was using Grey Warden blood in his experiments. There were also rumours from Kirkwall of another talking darkspawn, this one called Corypheus, imprisoned by the Grey Wardens and released and then killed by the Champion of Kirkwall. My second, Nathaniel, was rescued in the Deep Roads near there by the Champion and a Warden.”

“Anders, I presume.” Fiona smiled gently, as if she had caught Rhiannon out, which suited her just fine.

“Yes,” she said sourly, as if at Anders and at Fiona’s perceptiveness. “Before he became a murdering terrorist, he was one of mine. He told Nate that the darkspawn had controlled him, controlled other wardens, and had reminded him of the Architect. He also projected a song not unlike that of the Calling. I presume if there are two such darkspawn, there may well be more.” She avoided any mention of ancient magisters. It was more important to keep everything simple. “How do you know about The Architect?”

“I met him, almost thirty years ago now” Fiona answered. “In fact, he is the reason I am no longer a Warden.”

“So he cured you?” Bethany leaned forward, intent on the woman’s answers.

“He did, in a way, but it was not intentional. He created amulets that sped up the process of the blight in our bodies, they were supposed to hide us from the darkspawn, given to us by the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle, his minion. I was the youngest, besides Duncan, the others succumbed, I was cured.”

Rhiannon interrupted, “Duncan wasn’t cured, he recruited Alistair and I.”

Fiona nodded. “He carried an artefact that stopped the amulet working. It did not progress the blight, but nor was he cured. I travelled to Weisshaupt to undertake the Joining again, but it did not work. And so I ended up in the Circle.” She paused to look at both young women, hanging on her word, The Game forgotten as they were caught up in the story and the hope of redemption. “The amulets were kept at Weisshaupt. I do not know where the Architect went.”

“To the Deep Roads under Amaranthine, apparently, but he isn’t there now.” That was part of what Nathaniel had been doing when he ended up under Kirkwall, investigating red lyrium for the First Warden and looking for the Architect for Rhiannon. “We were already working on a cure for blighted land, and I had hopes that the research would translate into a cure for blighted people, including Grey Wardens.”

“I do not think the First Warden would look favourably on such an endeavour.” said Fiona.

Rhiannon grinned. “I don’t think he looks favourably on much to do with me.” Her one interview with the man had been a fiasco of him demanding to know why she was not dead while she pleaded ignorance until he finally sent her back to Ferelden in disgust. Fiona smiled back, hesitantly. “But at least I know Weisshaupt is definitely going to be a stop on my journey.” Her smile disappeared as she said, thoughtfully, “I wish I knew how long we had, if it is a true Calling or even if it isn’t. I have an invisible deadline and I don’t even know if I’ll last long enough, or if…” She trailed off, the words sticking in her throat as Bethany moved to put her arms around her.

“Alistair will be fine, Rhi. We all will.”

Rhiannon lifted her head just in time to see that strange, almost sick look pass once again over Fiona’s face. It had happened the last time she had mentioned Alistair too. She looked puzzled. “Have you met King Alistair, Grand Enchanter?” She knew full well she hadn’t, else he would have mentioned it. 

Fiona shifted in her chair. “I knew his father.” 

Rhiannon did some calculations in her head. “Thirty years ago Maric disappeared for months, there were all sorts of rumours. When he vanished again a lot of people thought he would reappear, because he had done it before. At least until word of the shipwreck came. I wasn’t born the first time, but I remember my parents talking about it just before Cailan’s coronation.”

Fiona nodded. “We were heading into the Ortan Thaig, the King had been there before so my commander asked him for maps, directions, anything that might help. He was grieving, struggling with the pressures on him, he insisted on coming with us.”

Rhiannon curled her lip at the thought of the Ortan Thaig. “Eugh, spiders.” She didn’t remember much of Maric but from the stories that was exactly the sort of thing he would have done. Queen Rowan had died not long before and he had been headstrong and impulsive, traits both his sons shared. Fiona looked sad, she had lost all of her companions but Duncan, lost even that which made her a warden, no wonder she mourned events from so long ago. But watching her, it occurred to Rhiannon that the woman’s sadness was something else and that something was nipping at the back of her mind, trying to get her attention. She whispered to Bethany, who made her apologies and left to retire for the night. Then, solely on instinct, she said, “Of course, it turns out Maric didn’t die after all, he was captured. Alistair spent months hunting him down in Antiva, only last year.” Fiona’s face was a picture of polite interest, too polite, Rhiannon thought, but one of her ears twitched, just a flick, barely noticeable, “His life force had been drained to fuel a misguided attempt to enter the Fade, in freeing him, Alistair had to let him die. I hoped that Alistair would find his father, would have something of the life he should have had, instead of the one he did, but it wasn’t to be. Instead he brought home his ashes.” She didn’t hide the anger or resentment she had felt on behalf of her husband, that there was always something in the way of his happiness, and she suspected part of that anger belonged to the woman in front of her, whose eyes had shone with tears she was trying to hold back, whose ears twitched slightly as if they were the only vent for her emotion. “Of course, his mother died in childbirth, it wasn’t her fault he grew up unloved and alone, she couldn’t have chosen to abandon her son to those who would make him sleep with dogs and send him to the Chantry when he was only ten. Thank goodness Duncan saved him from becoming a Templar, I suppose the Blight is better than ending up lyrium addled, or dying in some ridiculous skirmish in the middle of this Maker-cursed war.” She kept her voice and eyes unfocused, as if only thinking aloud, then sharpened them both. “My apologies, Grand Enchanter. You don’t want to hear about old wrongs done to someone you don’t even know. My emotions get the better of me sometimes.” She stood, smoothing out her gown and made an abrupt curtsey to the mage. “I am tired, Lady Fiona. Please excuse me, we have a long journey ahead. I should retire.”

Fiona stood and curtsied back, raising her head to look directly at the queen. “Of course, your highness.” She hesitated, then continued. “For all the misfortune of his youth, I think your King very fortunate in his wife, and in his friends.” She looked as if she would have said more, but stopped herself, simply wishing Rhiannon a good night before sitting back down before the fire, sipping her coffee and staring into the flames as Rhiannon slipped away to her room. When the door closed behind her, Fiona closed her eyes and felt the tears run down her cheeks.

  



	15. The Wardens

Halamshiral was no great city like Val Royeaux, instead it was a sprawling palace complex squatting in the middle of a network of villages and towns, a spider sitting in the middle of the web that fed it, while the web itself grew bedraggled. Situated at the edge of the Dales it was stately and beautiful and overlooked the devastation of the Exalted Marches. Rhiannon had been there before, when her father had been the ambassador to Orlais he had journeyed where the court did, and where he went, Eleanor and Rhiannon had followed. While Castle Cousland had been left to the stewardship of Fergus and Mother Mallol, Rhiannon had spent four years at the court of Orlais, as her brother had at the Antivan court a few years before. Unlike Fergus, Rhiannon had found no spouse there, but she had put the time to other uses, learning everything she could of the Great Game and making contacts from across Thedas. Bryce Cousland had made Ferelden respected in Orlais, ensured that there would be no attempts to annexe it again, and for all that work he had been murdered, Highever given to the bastard Howe, the Cousland name dragged through the mud until Rhiannon dealt with the traitors responsible. Now, passing the palace she had once roamed freely, she remembered the dances, the meetings, the gardens and the assignations, but above all she remembered her parents.

They were not entering the Winter Palace, it would be impossible for her to meet with the Empress’ Arcane Advisor without a thousand rumours and insinuations and she had no intention of the Orlesian court knowing of her presence. Instead they skirted the grounds, heading for a small town about five miles further on, small enough to have little attraction for the nobility but large enough that travellers were a frequent sight. There were three inns in the town and the Grey Wardens stopped at the one closest to the river docks, comfortable and welcoming with good food and an innkeeper who was friendly but not nosy, and who received a healthy stipend from Clarel each year to provide hospitality for any Wardens passing through. The inn didn’t cater to the nobility, there were no suites or private dining rooms, the sheets were cotton and the food was plain, but Rhiannon liked the quiet atmosphere and thought she might bring Alistair here sometime in the future.

She missed him. She hadn’t spent so long without him since they first met and now weeks had passed without seeing him or talking to him and who knew how long this quest would take or if she would ever see the end of it? Perhaps the Calling would take them all before she could return to him? The past ten years had seen one constant in her life and now he was miles away while she sought a way for him to put her aside forever.

The journey from Redcliffe to Collinverd had been uneventful, the weather warm and the roads well travelled. Cutting across the Emerald Graves instead of following the main highway around the edges had saved them days of travel and they rode through the wooden gates, waved on by two bored looking guards, almost a week earlier than planned. Collinverd was a typical Orlesian town, barely big enough to be called such. Rough hewn stone buildings lined a single thoroughfare while the rest of the town sprawled haphazardly outwards. At the centre of the town the street opened into a market square that today lay empty but for a small vegetable stall in the north-east corner. Directly across the square sat the Chantry, it’s spire visible for miles around, it’s doors opened wide. Instead of templars, soldiers in the Valmont livery stood around the building while a young girl in plain clothing swept the steps clean of dust. Most of the chantries they passed had soldiers in local livery guarding them, the only templars they had seen were a pair who had tried to ambush them two days out of Redcliffe, haggard and rough looking with rust spotting the familiar breastplate, skirts torn away to avoid catching on bushes. These were hunters - mage-hating fanatics who had abandoned their order to become vigilantes and criminals and the two women treated them as such, leaving their bodies for the scavengers and giving their armour to a village blacksmith to freely make what the villagers needed, melted down into pots and tools so it could never again be used to protect such scum.

The inn they were looking for was a few streets past the chantry, the tavern in front mostly quiet at this time of day as they headed round the side to a modest courtyard with stables. Rhiannon nodded to the stablehand who took Archer’s reins from her while another took Bethany’s Iris and the packhorse she had named Meredith, joking that it was the perfect name for the irascible animal. They would pay for stabling with their room, if Nate and Josef hadn’t already, but Bethany slipped the boys a few extra coins for themselves. They looked clean and well-fed, probably sons of the innkeeper, but a coin or two never went amiss and stablehands were a reliable source of gossip, should they need it. As expected, the taproom was all but empty, only a couple of solitary drunkards and a balding, middle-aged man wearing an apron and hammering a bung into an oak barrel behind the spotless bar. He looked up as they entered, took in the blue and silver armour they had put on before riding into Collinverd, and turned back to finish his job before addressing them, a move that had Rhiannon nodding in approval. A man who finished his job rather than fawning on customers the second they entered was one she could respect. The two women chose a table near the fire and waited for him to come over.

“I suppose it was too much to hope they would be just sitting here waiting for us?” Bethany muttered. They had pushed hard for the last day or so and her muscles were feeling it. The promise of a hot bath and clean clothes was as attractive as the thought of seeing Nathaniel after almost a month apart and wandering the town trying to find the errant men was not appealing in the slightest.

Rhiannon smiled at her. “No need to wait on them. I need to look about anyway. We’ll take a room, you can have the first bath and sleep and we’ll sort it out once we’re all here. They’ll turn up eventually. Unfortunately, I can’t get rid of them, troublemakers that they are.” Beth arched her brow and Rhiannon waved a hand. “Fine, I don’t try to get rid of them. But one day I’ll get tired of the insubordination and make them live in the Vigil and peel potatoes for the rest of their lives.”

She looked up as the innkeeper walked over to them, pleased to see him carrying two goblets and a jug of what turned out to be pear cider. “Forgive my presumption, ladies,” he said, “Your friends have been here for several days and mentioned you would be joining them. I have a room set aside, next to the others and it is early for lunch but I can have some bread and cheese brought up if you wish?”

Rhiannon kept her smile sweet and polite, pleased with the lack of grovelling in his tone. Orlesians were often stilted in speaking Trade, she found, but there was nothing patronising about him either and the inn seemed well maintained, clean and respectable. Obviously, Clarel’s patronage was well given here. “Merci,” she answered, tasting the cider and finding it sweet and refreshing. “Je m'appelle Rhia et mon amie est Beth. Savez-vous où sont allés nos amis ce matin?” The man looked pleased to be addressed in his native tongue and she inwardly grimaced as she imagined how he might have responded to Nathaniel’s poor Orlesian and abominable accent. Josef was good at languages but he had never found a need to learn Orlesian so the little Nate could remember from childhood lessons was all they had to carry them through until Rhiannon arrived.

“Ah, mesdames, la nourriture sera apportée immédiatement. Votre ami blond, l'Ander, est parti il y a une heure à la recherche d'une librairie. L'autre est toujours dans sa chambre.” Bethany looked perplexed at the flurry of Orlesian so Rhiannon translated.

“Josef is off looking for books, no surprise there, and Nate is still in their room. And he’ll have food brought right over.” She looked back at the man to ask, “Pouvez-vous organiser un bain dans notre chambre, s'il vous plaît? Nous voyageons depuis un certain temps.” At his nod she spoke again to Bethany. “He’ll have a bath drawn while we eat. You can soak and I’ll go hunting our bookworm. If he actually finds a bookshop we might not see him back here for hours.” She quickly got the directions the man had given Josef, and his name, Marcel, and by the time they had eaten the fresh bread and soft cheese brought by a girl named Olette, who could only be Marcel’s daughter they were so alike, they were assured that the bath was drawn and Beth was lead upstairs by Olette while Rhiannon left to find her errant mage.

Given the sprawling and disorganised layout of the town, it was harder than she anticipated to find her way around, finally stopping for directions when she landed in the square before the chantry for the third time. The soldiers would probably have known their way about but they looked at her with suspicion when she appeared yet again, so she made her way to the vegetable stall, looking over the wares and grabbing a small punnet of cherries she saw hiding behind a pile of beets. “Combien?” she asked, then handed over ten coppers before adding a small silver coin in return for the far clearer directions the young woman gave. She found the small shop just in time to see a tall blond man turn the corner ahead and cursed under her breath before shouting, “Josef!” The man started, then turned, waiting with a slightly guilty look as she walked towards him. She pushed down the urge to hug him tightly and instead grabbed the canvas bag he carried and looked inside. 

“Reina,” he protested, trying to grab the bag back while she pulled one of the books from it. She let go of the bag when she saw the title. The Tale of the Champion. Josef checked the other books were ok then closed the bag, avoiding looking at her as he muttered, “I’ll pay you back. I made enough potions to sell some through the apothecary here.”

She just looked at him for a moment, before grabbing him into the hug she had resisted a few minutes earlier. “I missed you,” she said, ignoring the comment about paying her back for the moment. “I’m not used to a quiet travelling companion, I kept waiting for the inappropriate comments every time we met someone along the way.” She took his arm firmly, tucking the book under her other arm, and said, “It took me nearly an hour to find my way here, you’re in charge of getting us back to the inn, where hopefully Beth is finished her bath so I can get mine.”

Josef grinned hesitantly down at her. “Do you think she made it to the bath?”

“She’d better.” Rhiannon grumbled, sourly. “If she’s canoodling with that troublemaker then I’m taking the bath and she can wait her turn.”

They walked arm in arm back to the inn, enjoying the peaceful silence. Rhiannon was disgusted to find it less than fifteen minutes walk and ignored the taproom to head straight up the stairs and into the room she would nominally share with Bethany. As he followed her in, Josef stopped and blushed, shutting the door behind him quickly so no one passing would see Nate and Beth both lying in the large tub before the fire, Beth almost asleep against Nate’s chest as he gently played with her long, black hair. They both looked up as Rhiannon entered, one languidly, the other tensing slightly, as she said. “Well she made it to the bath, at least. I hope you know you’re emptying and refilling that tub, Howe. I’m not getting in it with your filth and who knows what in there.”

“Pity we can’t persuade you to join us now, there’s room.” Beth said, laughing slightly as Nate tensed more and Rhia let out a grunt of disgust before dropping a kiss on Bethany’s forehead.

“If it was just you I’d be tempted, sweetness. Besides, I think you could do with a nap. Get that ruffian to put you to bed before he draws a fresh one for me. I’m going to catch up with Josef next door.” She took a leather folder from one of her saddlebags before leading Josef back out and waiting till he opened the door next to them.

The room beyond was neat, everything arranged with Josef familiar precision, the shutters thrown open to let fresh air in, the only sign of Nathaniel’s habitually untidy presence a rag and some leather polish lying discarded on the small table beside one of his greaves. Josef huffed as he moved the greave back to its mate, then lifted the polish and rag, slipping it into a bag that sat under the table. Rhiannon looked on with amusement, sitting on the edge of the large bed that was made with more precision than some of the palace maids could manage. Josef looked up at her and grinned, then emptied his canvas bag of half a dozen books, most of them by Varric Tethras. Those were stacked neatly on the bedside table before he finally sat on a sturdy chair and talked to her.

“I meant what I said, I will pay you back.” 

“I have no idea why you think you have to?” She said, frankly. “Didn’t Nathaniel give you money? I meant to share it out before we left but I forgot.”

Josef stared down at his hands in his lap. “Yes, of course he did. But I need to earn my own money, Reina, not live off yours. I know we’re all Grey Wardens and all, I’m not complaining, in fact, I’m bloody grateful, but I need to be useful. I’m not a charity case.” He looked up as she laughed, surprised and then slightly annoyed at her flippant response.

“Oh, take that look off your face, you idiot.” She laughed again at the glare he was throwing at her now. “The money is yours, twit.” She couldn’t help laughing at his indignant spluttering, remembering his stubborn independence and pride so well. “When we heard you were alive I reinstated your stipend, and backdated it. You have years of it accumulating in the warden’s vault in Denerim. Not to mention the fact that you are on duty as a warden, on a quest for the wardens. You persist in thinking of me as the queen, but I’m not here as queen. Technically I’ve abandoned my throne and my husband to disappear into the wilderness, Alistair will disavow any knowledge of where we are or what we are doing. Yes, money has been sent to Morrigan to bring to us, but it isn’t Ferelden money, it’s Warden money and some of it is yours.” She put out a hand to cover his and drew him to sit beside her on the bed, wrapping her free arm around him and leaning her head onto his shoulder. “You are ours, sweetheart. You are ours, and we are yours. Always and forever, from the moment of the Joining, until the darkness finds us. I am not a queen, you are not a healer, Nathaniel is not a lord, nor is Bethany an apostate. We are wardens, and we belong to each other.” She looked up at him through auburn lashes and asked, “How are you so good?” He looked back down at her, startled. “You and Alistair - how are you both so… good?”

He laughed. “Good? Alistair, yes, but Reina, I’m a mass murderer, I destroyed a city. How can you say I’m good?”

She shook her head, no longer surprised that he couldn't see what she did. “Both of you,” she said, firmly, “My lost boys; neglected, abandoned, abused and still so very good.” She placed a finger over his mouth before he could protest again. “Even after everything, you tried, you wrote letters, wrote your manifesto, shouted to the rooftops. You lived in a sewer to heal the ones the Chantry were happy to leave to die. You blew up a Chantry, people died, but you feel guilty about that every day, even though it was almost 3 years ago, and believe me, most of those deaths were not your doing. You didn’t see Kirkwall, the templars killed more civilians than mages, they were out of control.”

“You said I should have waited. That is was flashy, and a fuck up from beginning to end.” She hissed in frustration at the reminder of her harsh words on the ship from Kirkwall when she didn’t know if he would live or die.

“I should have known you would hear that. Of course, you’re ignoring the part where Hawke, Nate, Beth and I all knew exactly what you were planning and let you go ahead with it. As did your friends, Varric, Isabela and Fenris, since they help us get you out. That blood is on our hands too, not just yours, but you hoard blame and guilt like a dragon hoards coin. Do you think for a second that I would have felt guilty if I set those charges? Do you think it would have bothered me for one moment, never mind three years later?” She pushed away from him so she could look him in the eye, determined to make him hear what she was saying. “You don’t see it, but I do. Nate and Beth and Alistair and Leliana and Zevran and all of our friends see it. You matter, Josef.”

He shifted, moving away from her and she knew he would try to deny what she had said, so she backed off slightly, shifting the topic from him to let him relax a little.

“Alistair’s the same,” she said thoughtfully. “He forgave Eamon and Isolde, he killed Loghain cleanly even though he was responsible for the deaths of the only family Alistair had known. I would have let the blood mage drain Isolde dry instead of going all the way to the Circle but Alistair saved her life, in spite of her cruelty to him, and she didn’t even thank him, not once. I would have put Loghain through the Joining and watched him choke to death, or taken him out to face the Archdemon. Void, if I’d fought that duel I’d probably have cut him to pieces slowly, one for every man who died at Ostagar or in a civil war he started while the Blight ravaged the land. And I wouldn’t have felt a thing. No remorse, no guilt, just satisfaction at making my point. How can two men who have been through hell all their lives be so good while a spoiled noblewoman can’t even be bothered to try?”

Josef turned to her indignantly. “How can you say that? You saved Ferelden, not just from the Blight but from the war, from famine, you married a man you don’t love to give the kingdom a king they desperately need. You take in outcasts and apostates and make the world safer for us, no matter the cost.”

“Did you know I almost got Alistair tortured and executed?” she asked. Josef sat back slightly and crossed his arms and she knew what kind of story he was expecting, one where she made a simple mistake that got them captured, the official story of what happened at Fort Drakon.

“I think that was Loghain, wasn’t it?” His sardonic attitude wouldn’t last, she knew.

“Oh, absolutely. We went into the Arl of Denerim’s estate, killed Rendon Howe and his men, rescued Queen Anora only to be caught by Ser Cauthrien who just happened to be told of Howe’s death in time to get a squad of guards together and make her way over just as we were heading for the front door, in spite have come in through the back. She magnanimously ignored the very slightly disguised Anora, a woman she grew up with, and her equally well-known handmaiden, and sent them on their merry way with the rest of the blood-soaked invaders because her sworn Lord and idol had only specified the Wardens. Then they knocked us unconscious and we woke just in time for Leliana and Morrigan to save us before anything nasty could occur. Does that sound familiar?”

“Well, not when you say it like that,” he muttered, realising the immense holes in the story he had heard.

“No? Leliana and Zevran spent a long time making sure that was exactly what everyone knows happened. It was all very civilised and honourable. So civilised that when she died in the Battle of Denerim, Alistair posthumously awarded her the Silver Sword for her loyalty to Ferelden. What definitely didn’t happen, of course, is that about six hours after Alistair and the others had taken Anora to Eamon’s estate, he came back to persuade me to stop playing with Howe and let the man die. Cauthrien and her men didn’t catch us sneaking out the way we came in and held us there until she did a sweep and found what was left of Howe. And we definitely weren’t dragged to Fort Drakon where I didn’t persuade the guards to take turns fucking me to keep them away from Alistair long enough for me to work out a way out of the impenetrable fortress.” Josef had grown progressively paler as her tone became more sarcastic and she brushed him off as he tried to lean in to offer comfort she didn’t need.

“You’re missing the point, love.” She said it gently. “I would do it again. I would take my time torturing Howe, the man I called Uncle Ren, who bounced me on his knee and brought me sweets and was devastated when we said Nate and I couldn’t marry because we were like siblings. We had a relationship, he was my father’s closest friend, and even at the end, even after what I put him through, he insisted he truly believed it was my family that were the traitors. Like Loghain, like Cauthrien, he only saw the Orlesian threat. He was a despicable person, he deserved death as much as Loghain and Cauthrien, he became twisted and evil after his wife’s death and what he thought was his best friend's betrayal, but Alistair would have given him a clean death. You would have given him a clean death. I don’t even care that I didn’t. He suffered and everyone knew what would happen to those who hurt the ones I loved. He was a satisfying object lesson. The guards in Fort Drakon. Every one that touched me died and when they cleared the bodies out, each of them had an appendage shoved down their throats. They weren’t just men you see, there were women too. Some of them had a weapon instead of a finger or a cock, daggers mostly, hilt first. They were also an object lesson. Nothing more than that - just an example to make sure others played nice. I don’t have nightmares about it, who has time with all the darkspawn that haunt my dreams? I didn’t cry in anyone’s arms. Why would I? I know that’s not normal but it doesn’t bother me. So believe me when I say that you are a good man, because you would never do the things I have done. I am drenched in blood and they call me queen and hero and I don’t care about my titles or my crimes. You are so pure and filled with guilt because you had to learn the simple truth that peaceful solutions can only be found if both sides have power. If one side has all the power and is determined to keep it, the only way to change is to fight. To save slaves, the slavers must die, to save the abused, the abusers must have their power removed from them and when that power is built into a whole society then that society needs to be rebuilt, in fire and blood if that’s what it takes.”

“No!” His cry was intense, straight from his gut. “I was wrong, Vengeance was wrong. Change by force is no change, the harder the push, the harder the resistance, that’s why so many mages turn to demons and blood magic, it’s how templars become like Meredith and Alrik. Fear and fire and blood escalate and now we’re in the middle of a war and everyone suffers. A forest fire causes devastation, but under the ashes the same trees grow again, as strong as before. But the flow of the river can change the forest forever. We should have been water, wearing away the rock of the chantry, changing minds by our example, not this!” He had grabbed her shoulders, his hands holding her firmly but gently, unable to hurt, even in his fervour. “What you’ve done since the Blight, Avernus’ research, supporting mages, those things mean something. Your reign might have begun in fear but your people love you because you heal the land, because you bring life, not because you punished those who hurt you. You say you don’t feel anything, any pain or remorse, but it doesn’t stop you loving your people faithfully, it doesn’t stop you protecting the family you made when your own was taken. You were fire, back then, but for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been water, wearing away at damaged Ferelden, bringing life and hope in barren places.” His hands left her shoulders as he pulled her closer into his embrace and leaned into her until their foreheads touched. “You are a good woman, Rhiannon, you are everything.”

She leaned into him in turn and whispered, “Then believe me when I say you are a good man.” They sat together, holding to each other, until Nathaniel knocked to say the bath was ready for Rhiannon and then they separated, going about their business with a new understanding between them and peace in their hearts, at least for now.


	16. Regrets

The herbalist, Gisel, lived a few doors down from the bookshop, window boxes of herbs the only sign of her trade at the front while at the back of the house an outbuilding stood with bunches hung from the ceiling to dry while a still boiled away in the corner and rows of salves and potions lined shelves that filled three walls. As she let Rhiannon into an evidently rarely used parlour, Gisel apologised for the prevailing smell of boiling rashvine nettle, used to combat an outbreak of the summer cough among the children of the village. Rhiannon smiled demurely and reassured her, accepting the offer of tea while she waited, hoping it wasn’t tainted too strongly by the astringent medicine. When it came, the tray held a pot and two cups and a plate of the delicate bredele biscuits Rhiannon had loved when she lived at court. There was also a small pile of letters that she worked her way through, half-listening to the sounds of Gisel pottering in her workshop, waiting for the bell to ring again. There were three from contacts along their planned travel route, confirming arrangements made, one warning of bandits between Caimen Brea and Nessum, the last significant towns before Weisshaupt. She had considered going through Perenvale, or even crossing into Tevinter to Val Dorma but both routes would add weeks, possibly months to a journey that already promised to be too long for her vulnerable country. There had been no response from the wardens she sent to Weisshaupt, though it had been long enough for something to have got through, and there were whisperings of unrest in Tevinter, a rift within the Magisterium itself. She needed to get to Weisshaupt and find out what in the Void was going on. If necessary she would abandon the quest for a cure, so perturbed was she about what she heard and even more what she didn’t hear. The last was from Leliana, the Conclave had been called, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes as she had anticipated, invitations sent to the rulers of Thedas to send observers, the leaders of both mages and templars invited, not ordered, to join the Divine in a search for peace. She laid the parchment down and leaned back, taking a sip of the bitter tea as she reflected. Monarchs were not invited to Divine Conclaves, only a single representative, but she was tempted. Speaking directly to Leliana might be more useful than this endless trek across the continent, there was time to go back, to make it to Haven in time for the Conclave, to represent her kingdom and help end the war that was tearing it apart. But the ongoing song in her head, the one that sang strong day and night and drove her to distraction, it called to her. She was a Grey Warden, first and foremost, Commander of the Grey, wife of a warden and sworn defender of those under her command. She would see this through and leave Ferelden to Alistair and the Conclave to whoever he appointed.

Her musings were interrupted by the doorbell, followed shortly by Gisel ushering the newcomer into the parlour before retreating once again to her workshop. The two women watched each other across the room, warily sizing the other up, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Rhiannon was sure she would never have recognised Morrigan if she passed her in the street. The long hair was as shining black as ever, but instead of the rough, twisted bun she remembered it was carefully coiffed, a braided coronet wrapped around her head while the strands that had forever escaped to fall across her lovely face were nowhere to be seen. She wore a rust coloured linen day dress and makeup muted her striking features, changing the bright gold of her eyes to a dark honey that reminded the warden of Alistair. The dress hid far more than her robes once had but her figure seemed more rounded, her hips wider, only enough to add to her lush beauty and accentuate her slender limbs but it marked the passage of time far more than Rhiannon’s narrow, muscled shape. As she looked at her, Rhiannon realised she had forgotten how truly beautiful Morrigan was and couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face as she stood and moved across the room, holding her hands out to the other woman. For a moment she thought Morrigan would reject the gesture, but then the witch’s hands came up to clasp hers and with another breath they were hugging each other tightly and Rhiannon had to blink back the tears that pricked at her eyes, looking up to see the taller woman doing the same. For another few moments they stood, each savouring the contact with her long-missed friend, before Rhiannon drew Morrigan towards the sofa and the pot of tea.

“Part of me thought you wouldn’t come.” She poured a cup for Morrigan and handed it to her before topping up her own lukewarm drink.

“I certainly considered it,” Morrigan replied, in her slightly old-fashioned and formal speech, learned from her centuries old mother and never quite lost. “I admit to being… apprehensive regarding this meeting. Your formal letters and such were more than I had anticipated, particularly…” She trailed off uncomfortably and Rhiannon filled in the gap.

“You deserved as many accolades as any of us, Morrigan. The title and land were no more than your due.”

“Did any of the others receive as much? I suspect it was more to do with the child than with myself.” At the mention of her child, Rhiannon couldn’t help flicking her eyes at the door, as if expecting the boy to wander through it, although presumably if he was there he would have entered with his mother. Morrigan, of course, noticed. “I did not bring him. He has lessons and I did not think it wise.”

Rhiannon nodded. “I agree,” she said. “Honestly, I didn’t expect it anyway. You haven’t wished us to know him all this time and I wouldn’t want to meet him until his father had.”

“You think Alistair entitled to it?” Morrigan bristled and Rhiannon was reminded of the argument the last time they met, screaming imprecations at each other before Morrigan had disappeared through the mirror to who knew where her infant son had lain.

“No,” she replied, dully, reluctant to ruin their reunion over past disagreements. “You made it clear what your conditions were, we have respected them. Alistair has never tried to find you or the boy. And no, the land has nothing to do with the boy. We couldn’t exactly tell the nobles we were handing it over to the King’s illegitimate child, conceived in a blood ritual that saved our lives. But Leliana, Wynne and Zevran all have their own small manor and income, held in trust by the crown. Sten, or Arishok as he is now, declined the honour, Oghren is a warden and Shale has no need of land or money, but we were never going to give you less than the rest. I only wish we could have given you more.”

Morrigan sneered in that familiar way that told Rhiannon she was trying to push her emotions down deep. “What more could you have given, your Majesty?” The title was a mockery. “I have no need of riches, I have enough power for a hundred lifetimes and I would not have stayed to be surrounded by sycophants and cronies to look down on me as the King’s mistress and mother of his bastard. I would not have submitted myself to the Circle or the Chantry, nor submitted my child to such.”

Rhiannon huffed through her nose, a habit her mother had called unattractive but one that always appeared when she was on the verge of losing her temper. “If I could, I would have made sure Alistair stayed with you. I would never have suggested you stay at court. Andraste’s tits, I don’t want to be at court half the time and I was born to it.”

“And yet you made him King, and yourself Queen, gathering titles like windfall apples.”

“Because Ferelden needed him, because the nobles would only accept him through me!” She huffed again, trying to force herself off this circular argument, the one that had led to their screaming match in the Dragonbone Wastes. “I’m not doing this again, Mor. I’m not sorry for doing what I had to do, any more than you are. You could have stayed, you could have brought the child for visits, telling any story about his father you wanted, you could have done anything you liked. Alistair is a good king, Ferelden prospers because of him, mages are safer in our country because of him and none of this is anything to do with why I’m here.” She shoved the long held sense of betrayal deep down, knowing that her anger had never been on Alistair’s behalf, that she had always resented the fact the Morrigan had left her, had kept her child and her life from her. It was the same anger she had felt at Rod, the same she still held over Josef’s head, the anger at being left behind by people who would rather struggle and suffer than accept what she could offer them. So she forced the feelings away and let what she had to say pour out so fast Morrigan would have no chance to interrupt. 

“I’m here because I need your help. The wardens are hearing the Calling. All of us, including Alistair. I’m trying to find a cure, I was trying before this happened but there’s no time. I need your knowledge, anything that might give me a clue. I need you to sift through what I already know and make sense of it for me.”

Morrigan’s pale skin had turned grey, but her voice was level. “The Calling? All of you? That seems unlikely.”

“Exactly. We have some ideas on the subject but the crux of it is that I won’t take the chance that it isn’t real. I want a cure and I plan to find one.” She quickly told Morrigan about the Blight research, her hope for a cure and the realisation that every warden in southern Thedas was hearing the Calling at once. She told her about her meeting with Fiona and her journey to Weisshaupt to retrieve the amulets. At then end, Morrigan leaned back in the chair and watched her solemnly.

“And no one from Weisshaupt has replied to your messages?”

“No one. Even if these amulets weren’t there, that would be reason enough to go. Weisshaupt has never held a firm grip over the outposts, but in such circumstances their silence is suspicious. They were certainly quick enough when I didn’t die killing the Archdemon.” She might have disliked the First Warden but she didn’t believe he would ignore this.

Morrigan hummed thoughtfully and Rhiannon let her muse, leaving the room to ask Gisel for fresh tea and chat briefly about the potions Josef had for sale, some of which were beyond Gisel’s skill to make. When she carried the tray back to the parlour, Morrigan was standing beside the window, looking out into the quiet street that led down to the river docks.

“Did Alistair ever tell you of the night my son was conceived?” Rhiannon shook her head, then muttered a low ‘No’ when she realised Morrigan could not see her. “The ritual involved taking a small amount of our blood and mixing it into a potion. In some ways ‘twas similar to the Joining potion but its purpose was twofold; to bypass the sterility caused by the taint and to protect me from becoming tainted myself. A male who was not long past his Joining was required because even the potion would be unlikely to work in one whose body had completely adjusted. ‘Tis possible that this potion could be of use to your alchemist in his search for a cure.” She bowed her head. “I will admit, I considered whether to give you the recipe when we met, to see if it would allow you to bear an heir for the kingdom. In truth, part of me wanted you to have a Theirin child so you could become regent and I could take my Alistair back.”

“I would have done it, Mor. Why didn’t you?”

“Oh, many reasons. Because I selfishly wanted Alistair’s only child to be mine, because I did not want you to have another hold over him, because I could not guarantee it would work and did not wish to give you false hope. But mainly I think it was because I knew that even with the potion the child would be tainted, that I would be condemning it to the Blight, even if it were to survive to term. Kieran is pure, because the taint within him was destroyed with the Archdemon, but there would be no Archdemon to kill to cleanse another child.” She turned from the window to look at Rhiannon. “I will write down the ingredients for the potion for you to give to your alchemist. It will be delivered along with the money I was asked to pass along. But other than that, I have no aid to offer. I have concerns enough of my own in Orlais and I doubt that will improve, Conclave or no Conclave.”

“I’m thankful for any help you can give, Mor. Even if you had nothing to offer, I’d be happy just to see you again.” The two women returned to their seats to talk of everything and nothing, chatting and catching up on their lives, comparing the follies of nobles at court and the little news they had of former friends and companions. Rhiannon told Morrigan of Flemeth’s regeneration on Sundermount, something that did not surprise her at all, and about her rescue of Josef, which did and also earned her a scolding for being reckless which was so familiar it was hard to remember that almost ten years had passed since Morrigan’s frequent lectures on risking herself for others. Finally, after the teapot and biscuit plate had been refilled at least twice more, the women had to part ways once again. Morrigan did not want to leave Kieran in the care of the nursemaid for too long and even with wings a five mile journey would take some time. Rhiannon smiled at that, inwardly berating herself for assuming the woman had brought a carriage or even a horse. It was hard to separate once again, not knowing if or when they might see each other again, the jealousy of one and the resentment of the other faded somewhat and leaving the warm affection that had carried them through the Blight together. With a final hug and thanks to Gisel for her hospitality, the women parted ways, Morrigan for the road south to Halamshiral while Rhiannon walked back to the inn. Part of her had hoped that her friend would join her quest, as absurd as that was when she had a nine year old to care for, while another part was glad she was doing so well, a decade of worrying relieved by an afternoon that had been far too short.

She took the long way back to the inn, stopping by the docks to arrange passage to Val Chevin on the far side of the river and working her way back up to the busy marketplace to buy last minute supplies. Her last stop was to the farrier to pay for reshoeing their horses and to collect Meredith’s harness which had needed retooled after beginning to rub her shoulder, making her foul disposition worse than ever. Eventually she had no more reason to avoid returning, hoping fervently that whatever her friends had been so excited about this morning was done and over by now and cursing warden stamina. Wardens weren’t shy, monogamy was rare and with no chance of pregnancy or disease they tended to be free among themselves. But she had no wish to see Nathaniel involved, it would be as uncomfortable as the time she had walked in on Fergus and Oriana in the study. So she was relieved to walk into the inn and see the three of them sitting at a table eating a hearty stew while Josef and Beth argued over the heel of the bread.

“You know bread has two ends?” she asked, waving to Olette knowing the girl would bring another bowl, before stealing a sip from Nate’s tankard, savouring the gentle pear flavour on her tongue. Marcel brewed his own ale and cider and while Rhiannon couldn’t stand the taste of ale, his cider was delicious.

Nate grabbed his tankard back with a mock growl. “Don’t get them started, I already asked for more bread.”

“But since Josef is already on his second bowl of stew and has had four slice of bread already, then he should give me the other heel.” Beth sounded smug at her logic and Rhiannon sighed at their childishness.

“I don’t understand the attraction, myself.” She grumbled it under her breath as Olette brought her own portion and a basket piled with more bread and a large pat of butter.

“That’s because you and Nathaniel grew up with silver spoons and china plates.” Josef replied, voice muffled by a mouthful of stew that drew a disgusted look from the other three so he swallowed quickly. “Slices of bread aren’t nearly as good as the heel for lifting your dinner.”

“Especially if your mother grew up with silver spoons and couldn’t slice bread straight for shit,” Beth added, “The heel was the only bit that didn’t have anything liquid pouring right off all over your clothes.” Her eyes darkened for a moment. “Carver always managed to get it first. Mari and I always had to help Mother put everything out so he was always first to sit down. If we complained, Mother said it was only fair since Carver worked the farm with Father all day.” They were all quiet, as they always were when Beth mentioned her dead twin. The pain of her parent’s deaths were nothing compared to that loss and they all respected that. Beth sat staring into space for a moment, then gave herself a shake and quickly lifted the bit of bread Josef had surreptitiously been trying to reach for.

“Dead brother, remember?” she mocked him with a grin.

“Hmph. Playing the dead relative card, unfair.” he replied, leaning back with a grin, his hands wide to show his capitulation. “Underhand women, I never seem to meet any other kind.”

Rhiannon listened to their banter, enjoying the well flavoured stew but waving Olette away when she offered a second helping, her stomach still full of the luscious biscuits Gisel had provided. It was nice to see them so relaxed and at ease with each other. Their journey so far had been civilised and relatively easy but she had no illusions that it would remain so and no idea what they would encounter at Weisshaupt. So for tonight she relaxed and enjoyed the company of her friends.


	17. Interlude: The Conclave

Leliana slipped out of the Divine’s quarters before the corridors could fill with people, leaving Justinia to the three sisters who would help her into the formal robes she would wear for the opening ceremony. They had gone over every angle they could think of, checked the guard rotas and the schedules, the paths each party would take through the temple to keep them separate until they entered the Chamber of the Ashes. Briefly, she smiled, imagining if the Gauntlet still existed, how many would make it through to stand naked before the sacred altar. But the Guardian had disappeared with the Ashes, the high dragon long since dead, and both high and low temples housed priestesses and priests to maintain the two. The meat of the talks would take place in the lower temple which had enough rooms to hold everyone who would attend, including observers from the kingdoms of Thedas. But today everyone would assemble in the Great Hall where Andraste’s Ashes once sat, where Leliana herself had once kneeled, naked as a newborn babe, and prayed before the earthly remains of the Bride of the Maker, where she had promised that once the Blight was ended she would devote the rest of her days to the Chantry. And so she had, and did, and would, until her death.

Today her duties would take her away from the Temple entirely. Cassandra would arrive at Haven soon and they would have plans to make. Even if the Conclave led to peace between the factions, it would take time for the word to spread, there would be resistance, and Justinia had planned their next moves. The writ that would re-establish the Inquisition sat in the bag she carried over her shoulder. While the Divine led the Conclave, her Right and Left Hands would prepare for what would come after.

She took note of everyone she passed, from servants taking trays back and forth to the rooms of nobles, to scribes carrying their equipment to set up in the Chamber, to a giggling threesome wearing the badge of Ostwick and whispering about where they might find someone among the Kirkwall party. They would be disappointed, she thought, since the Kirkwall representatives would arrive with Cassandra today, delayed by bad weather on the Storm Coast. Unfortunately, the Champion of Kirkwall would not be among them, but Cass was bringing one of her friends to bear testimony before the Divine, along with a man she thought would be worthy of commanding the armies the Inquisition would require.

Varric Tethras was an author and a spymaster, not as good as her, but if he could be persuaded to assist them after the Conclave he had access to dwarven contacts that she lacked. In the absence of the Champion herself, Tethras could be a valuable ally, although from what she had heard, Cassandra had hardly managed to ingratiate herself with the man. The Commander was a different matter.

Cullen Rutherford had been a templar student with Alistair, one of the few the king spoke of with affection. Leliana had been part of the group that entered the Tower and fought Uldred and she remembered the skeleton of a man they had rescued, barely a man at that, no older than Rhiannon or Alistair themselves, who only seemed to be kept alive by burning hatred and a desire for vengeance upon Uldred and all mages. She had not met him during her visit to Kirkwall, preferring to avoid the Templars altogether, but had heard of his reputation as Meredith’s second. The Inquisition would seek to bring peace and order and would stand for both mage and templar. It’s purpose was not to restore the abuses that had led to the rebellion in the first place. She trusted Cassandra’s judgement, but if Cullen was not the right man for the job it would soon be apparent and they had found no one else who might be suitable.

As she walked out of the temple and started down the hill towards Haven, she noticed a handful of men and women in blue and silver, even the Grey Wardens had sent witnesses. The issue of the Warden mages had reared its head many times over the Ages, but the recent infiltration of templars into the order and their harassment of mages had not been confined to Amaranthine, and the First Warden had made it clear to the Divine that such interference would not be brooked. It also reminded Leliana that there would have been someone suitable for Cullen’s role, or even more so as Inquisitor, if that person hadn’t suddenly disappeared into thin air without a word.

She had received two letters from Rhi since she left Denerim, one to arrange a meeting with Morrigan, one to request the use of certain agents in northern Orlais and Nevarra. Then she had found out through one of those agents that the Queen herself had been in Val Chevin with associates that sounded very much like Nate, Bethany and Anders, and had left to travel north. No further word had come. Her people in Nessum had expected the group’s arrival but they had never appeared. So, while she was trapped here in Haven, one of her closest friends had simply vanished. Every agent not working towards establishing the Inquisition was on the lookout for her, but as yet there had been nothing at all.

When she reached Haven, Leliana made straight for the Chantry. The half-empty, isolated place so resistant of strangers had changed dramatically, it was now a bustling little village. The innkeeper, Flissa, had been a contact in Denerim, willing to move so Leliana would have an ear in the village in the months before the Conclave and she had been welcomed quickly by the residents, both Flissa and her sister, Naomi, becoming favourites particularly of the single men who gathered in a futile attempt to catch the attention of either woman. Flissa had been unhappily married and would never risk such again, while Naomi could flirt with the best but had no interest in men and was subtly courting the daughter of Harritt, the smith. As she passed the tavern she heard quiet laughter inside and the strains of the minstrel, Maryden, singing  _ Andraste’s Mabari _ . Later in the day the laughter would be louder, more raucous, and the songs bawdier, but for now the tavern, like the village, was quiet. Leliana slipped inside the Chantry, heading straight for one of the side altars to light a candle and pray Rhiannon and her friends were safe, before heading to the small room she intended for herself, Josephine and Cassandra. She put her bag on the floor beneath one of the beds and lay down on top of it, reaching for the copy of the Chant lying on the table and opening it, intending to read until Cassandra arrived.

_ In your heart shall burn _

_ An unquenchable flame _

_ All-consuming, and never satisfied. _

_ From the Fade I crafted you, _

_ And to the Fade you shall return _

_ Each night in dreams _

_ That you may always remember me. _

As she read the words, the sky through the tiny window lit up with green fire and the earth roared as if the very mountain had exploded. The Chantry shook around her, quakes ripping through the faultline under the massive mountain range, as she jumped from the bed, running to the secret door that had once led directly to the temple, the reason she had chosen this room. The door opened and Leliana stood, staring up towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where flames hundreds of feet high consumed the men and women who had gathered, where boulders, rocks and ash spread out from a growing cloud, landing for miles around, crushing anyone in the way. She did not feel the impact as she fell to her knees at the knowledge that Divine Justinia, her dear friend Dorothea, was at the centre of those flames, not knowing the horror could be any more intense until she looked further up into the sky, to the gaping hole in the heavens themselves, where, somewhere behind the flickering green light, she could just make out the towers of a city as black as night. The holy temple burned under a breach into the Fade itself.

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The quakes hit Halamshiral an hour or so later, knocking over statues and shaking tiles from the roof and plaster from the ceilings. Morrigan clutched her skirts up and sprinted from her hidden office, only to run into a guard in the hall outside the library.

“ _ Madame _ ,” the man stuttered, breathlessly. “ _ Sa Majesté exige votre présence, immédiatement.” _

She shoved him out of the way. “Move, fool. Tell Her Majesty I will attend her when I have found my son.” He watched, helplessly, as she continued on, heedless of the screaming nobles and terrified servants all around as she focused on getting to Kieran as quickly as she could, kicking off the ridiculous Orlesian shoes she wore to please Celene. The entire world had just shifted, the Veil warping and rippling around them, she must ensure Kieran was safe.

She found him on his knees on the floor of his bedroom, cradling his head in his hands and rocking back and forward and muttering unintelligibly, and Morrigan’s heart broke for her son. Whatever catastrophe had occurred, every mage in Thedas must be reeling right now, those even slightly sensitive to magic would be on edge, unsettled without even knowing why. How much worse must it be for her beautiful, special son, with the soul of a God inside him? She slammed the door shut behind her and threw herself down on the floor beside him, pulling her son into her arms where he rested his head against her shoulder and whimpered.

“Make it stop, Mother. Please, make it stop. I don’t like all the voices, tell them to be still.” Morrigan had never heard such pain in Kieran’s voice, not when he had nightmares, or when he had been delirious with autumn fever, or when he had fallen from the top branches of a mighty oak and broken his arm in three places. She had no idea what was going on, let alone how to stop it, but she promised herself and her son, then and there, that she would find whoever had caused this and make them pay for the crying, shaking boy in her arms.

“Shhh, darling. I am here. The voices are just jealous dreams, do not let them worry you. They shall never harm you while I am here.” She started to sing, a soothing lullaby taught to her by one of the Chasind women in the village where she had birthed Kieran. She had been driven home to the Wilds by fear and loneliness, had stood in front of the hut she grew up in and saw it empty, smaller than it had seemed when it had been her whole world. She had gone to the Chasind and they had cared for her, the women had guided her through the hours of blood and pain that almost broke her, so ignorant of childbirth was she, and they had taught her how to nurse and care for a child. She had stayed with them for the first four years of Kieran’s life, had trusted them to care for him when she had to venture out into the world and she had been sad to leave. But her son was not destined for a tiny village in the middle of nowhere and she had a responsibility to him. So they packed their few belongings and left for Orlais and every night she sang the same Chasind lullaby to soothe him to sleep.

As he heard it now, Kieran began to relax, conditioned by routine and his mothers arms and it was simplicity itself to ease him into a magical sleep that would protect him, at least for now, from the demons whispering in his ears. Morrigan was confident she had trained him well, but he was only a boy and she had no idea what was happening. So she set extra wards around him as she placed him on his bed and covered him with the blanket she had made during her pregnancy, the blanket he never slept without. She warded the door and locked it, although it was unlikely anyone would think to disturb the child, then turned sharply and made her way to the Royal Apartments. Whatever this was, she would need Celene’s resources to put a stop to it.

\------

Between the Calling singing in his head, the days of earthquakes and the ravens that seemed to come in flocks from the West, Alistair had not slept in days. The Grand Cleric of Ferelden had herself been lost in the tragedy, along with eight of the most senior clerics and templars in the country, but more than that, Eamon, Arl of Denerim was dead with them. Even as an abandoned youth, even while hating him, Alistair had thought of the man as his uncle, had appreciated the little kindnesses shown to an unwanted bastard. He had begged Rhiannon to save Eamon for those kindnesses as much as for his support against Loghain and the Blight. He had relied on his support while he learned to be King, had enjoyed the quiet evenings sitting together chatting and sipping brandy when both their wives were occupied elsewhere. Now he was gone, dead in an explosion that had sundered the Veil itself, and all the nobles of Ferelden could do was bicker and jockey for his position while the world fell apart around them.

Alistair stood, glad that Bann Eagen had finally ceased his rambling, the point of which completely escaped the exhausted King. Going over old ground was pointless, so he ignored the thinly veiled accusations against the rebel mages that had been levelled all morning and drew out a parchment clearly marked with a sunburst and eye seal.

“My lords and ladies, on the authority of the late Divine, Justinia V, a new Inquisition has been declared.” The rumble of whispers that had started when he pulled out the proclamation became a sea of shouting that Alistair simply ignored until it subsided again. The nobles had learned long since that Alistair would not respond to such shouting (at least once Rhiannon had taught him better) so they quickly quieted, waiting to see what would come next.

“The Inquisition has been called on a writ from the Divine, by the authority of her Right and Left Hands, to bring order and peace to the kingdoms of Thedas. They seek to close the Breach in the sky and to find the person or persons responsible for the murder of so many, including our Beloved Divine. Any who wish to join them will be welcome. Any who seek their aid will be heard.”

He rolled up the parchment and looked out over the court. “The Left Hand confirms that a survivor from the Temple, a woman some are calling the Herald of Andraste, can indeed close these Fade rifts. I have given her leave to send scouts out looking for signs of these rifts so the Herald can close them.” He paused then spoke sarcastically. “If anyone would rather have their lands overrun by demons, feel free to impede them. Anyone who would rather we didn’t all get ripped to pieces, I expect you to let your people know to give the Inquisition safe passage as an arm of the Chantry.”

“What of the news that the Chantry has deemed the Inquisition heretical?” asked a tall, severe looking woman with iron grey hair.

“Can the Inquisition be heretical, Althea?” asked Alistair in return. “It was founded by the Divine, even if she died before it could be proclaimed. The Chantry are running around like chickens with their heads cut off while the Hands of the Divine are carrying out the will of Her Holiness. Regardless, they have the Herald of Andraste, who seems to be our only hope of closing the great big hole in the sky.”

“But where are the templars? They should be dealing with the mages treachery.” 

He couldn’t see the speaker, but he knew the voice and sighed. “If you can find them, Wulff, feel free to ask them. Court is dismissed.”

As he left the throne room he tucked the parchment back into his mantle and headed for his study. Only the usual suspects were at court for now, most were on their own lands, overseeing the harvest and he would need to send out an official declaration of support for the Inquisition. He walked through the door, heading straight for the bell to ring for his lunch tray, then to the decanter to pour the glass of wine he rewarded himself with for not murdering any of his court today, before finally sitting at the desk and opening the first letter on the pile.

_ Alistair _

_ My little birds have lost sight of our friend. I have no news and with all the chaos I do not know if I will get more. The Breach is stable but we are determined to find a way to close it completely and I must focus all my resources on that, though I wish it were not so. I know you will help all you can, and I promise we will not pose any threat to the land of Ferelden. I have sent similar promises to the Empress Celene and have reached out to a mutual friend in Orlais for any information she may possess but have heard nothing as yet and I do not hold out much hope, given her silence in the past. _

_ I promise if I hear anything, you will be the first to know. For now, I must return to my duties. You have no doubt heard of the Herald of Andraste, handed out of the Fade by Andraste herself with the power to close the rifts. I will not presume to say whether the rumours of Andraste’s appearance are true, the Lady has no memory of her ordeal, but it is true that Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, a mage of Ostwick, can close the Fade rifts. She travels to the Crossroads to meet with a representative of the Chantry as we speak, in company of Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine. I hope you can ease the way for her, although we have heard that the fighting has renewed in the Hinterlands since the explosion.  _

_ Please be careful, my friend. There is more at play here than we know. _

_ Leliana _

Alistair leaned back in his chair and considered the letter. It was too direct for Leliana and he didn’t know if that was a sign of her worry or something more sinister. He ignored the comments about Morrigan and Rhiannon, persuading himself that the leaden feeling in his stomach was simply the usual post-Court indigestion, and considered the second part of the letter. Cassandra Pentaghast had a fearsome reputation and was one of the infamous Seekers of Truth. While it was true she had left the Seekers when they broke with the Chantry and took the Templars with them, he wasn’t sure she was the best person to have charge of a mage from the isolated and purportedly lax Ostwick Circle. Not to mention the appointment of Cullen Rutherford as Commander of the Inquisition armies, a man he would no longer trust within a hundred miles of a mage, and the woman was being ‘escorted’ to meet a member of the Chantry, at a place conveniently close to Redcliffe, where the majority of the rebel mages currently resided. It was worrying to contemplate when he had given Fiona assurances of safety for her people. Did the last sentence, ‘There is more at play here than we know’ refer only to those behind the Breach, or was Leliana trying to warn him about her own people. Whatever the answer, he would officially pull out ‘sweet, dumb Alistair’ for any official dealings with them until he knew what was really going on.

That decided, his mind dragged him back to the first paragraph and the two women it mentioned. “Damn it, Rhi,” he muttered to himself, running his hands through his hair then immediately trying to push the locks back into place. “Where the Void are you? What are you doing?” She could already be on her way back, abandoning her dream of a Cure for the reality of the Breach in the sky. A letter could already be winging its way to him to make ready for the return of his Queen. But he doubted it. The Cure had become an obsession for Rhiannon, something she fixated on as she sat in her dark bedroom drinking the brandy she thought he didn’t know about. The Calling, false or true, had made her brooding worse and she didn’t know how often he had carried her to her bed in a drunken stupor without knowing why his wife was killing herself or having any idea how to help her. Planning her quest had given her a new lease on life and the last bottle she had hidden before going to Soldier’s Peak had still been half full. Somehow, he didn’t think she would turn away from it, even if the whole Veil dropped around her ears. But if he even knew where she was, it would help set his heart at ease.

Thinking about Rhiannon led him to thinking about Morrigan. They had intended to meet, Rhiannon had hoped Morrigan would know something useful to her. Thinking of Morrigan didn’t hurt now, not as it had when she first left, when he spent months wondering if she really carried his child, if the child had lived, if Morrigan had lived. It was like the faint ache in his shoulder when the wind blew, a reminder of a wound that had lost the pain of the wound itself. Apparently, though, Leliana did not feel the same. She and Morrigan had been close, towards the end. They had talked together, sung together, Leli never returned from a supply run without a pastry for the witch while Morrigan had bought the most ridiculous shoes he had ever seen from that merchant on the way to Orzammar and had given them to Leli, resulting in a shriek he had been sure would make him deaf for a week. They had both liked pretty things and those tiny flowers and when she realised that Morrigan had left without so much as a goodbye, Leliana had been inconsolable for weeks. Over the years the red headed bard had become harder, colder, throwing herself ruthlessly into the role of spymaster and distancing herself from her friends. He had watched it with sadness, knowing it was part of how she reconciled herself to the life she had chosen. But he couldn’t help but remember the two laughing girls, braiding each others hair or cooing over some piece of jewelry, and wonder if it hadn’t started when Morrigan walked away without a backward glance.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Teagan Guerrin barging into the room. His uncle should have been nowhere near Denerim, he should have been in Redcliffe. His undignified yelp disappeared under the volume of Teagan’s bellow.

“Alistair!”

The King stood, holding out his hand for the Arl to take, then dropping it when Teagan ignored it in favour of putting his hands on Alistair’s desk as he leaned over it.

“What is going on, Teagan? Even you can’t just…”

“Silence, boy.” He bellowed again and Alistair narrowed his eyes and drew himself up straight, fully intending to berate the man for his disrespect, uncle or no, until he continued. “That witch has let Tevinter magisters take over Redcliffe.”

He sat again, stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening as Teagan explained how the Grand Enchanter had submitted to a Magister almost as soon as the Conclave was destroyed, how he and his minions had infiltrated Redcliffe and Teagan had barely managed to make it out before he became inconvenient. It seemed impossible, an insanely desperate act that surely Fiona must have known would bring only trouble. When he could finally start processing thought again, Alistair and Teagan planned their journey to take back Redcliffe. 


	18. The Deep Roads

The quakes lasted for three days, coming and going without warning, rock and dirt tumbling about them as they cowered in ruined archways. They tried to stay alert in tunnels that showed recent signs of darkspawn incursion but it seemed even the monsters themselves hid from the groaning of the earth. They moved cautiously when the tremors subsided, slowed by injury and uncertainty as they tried to make their way through the Deep Roads that led to Kal Sharok and on to Weisshaupt.

The journey from Val Chevin to Hunters Fell had been uneventful, the fertile fields of Ghislain and the balmy weather of Northern Orlais making it a pleasant ride though there were no Imperial hostels as there would have been along the Highway. In Hunters Fell they had been glad to find an inn that sold hearty food and had a clean bath house, staying for two nights to give Nathaniel and Bethany enough time to buy the supplies they would need for the trek across to Weisshaupt. Rhiannon and Josef pored over maps and laid their plans to move around the area where Leliana’s agent had warned of bandits and Josef brewed more healing potions while he had the opportunity. As a result, they were well rested and amply supplied when they rode out of Hunters Fell.

They were riding through a gully when the ambush came, the buzzing of loose fletching making Archer shy as Rhiannon jerked his reins, calling out to her companions. She jumped from the saddle, cursing the decision to send all her warriors away as messengers, drawing her daggers as she wrapped herself in shadows and looked for their attackers. Josef and Nathaniel fell back, keeping to their mounts and Rhiannon felt the slight tingling as a barrier was cast over her, but Bethany jumped down from Iris, producing the piercing whistle that ensured the warden’s riderless horses would fall back as far as they were able. She pulled her staff from her back, shifting it in her hands to quarterstaff hold and beginning to move it to build momentum. They had fought like this many times before, on the training field or before the camp fire in the evening, Bethany’s skill was a common way for apostates to hide the nature of their staves and her father had taught her well. As the first men began to emerge from behind the rocks or twists in the path that had hidden them from sight, Bethany began to lash out with staff and magic, killing two within seconds while Rhiannon fought against a berserker with a maul, vanishing and appearing crouched behind him in perfect position to slash a dagger across his hamstrings before moving onto the next assailant, satisfied that the brute would be down until one of them could finish the job. Behind the women, Nathaniel and Josef had fanned out, lightning flashing across the battleground while arrows fell like rain. Rhiannon hid behind a boulder long enough to catch her breath and tried to count their foe but even as they dropped, more sprang up to take their place, seemingly from nowhere. Arms and legs burning, she merged into the shadows again and worked her way down the field, careful to give Bethany plenty of room, her aim the far end of the gully and the numbers of the enemy still to face. They were slowing, lightning flashes had longer gaps between them, the swirl of ice and crackle of fire more often replaced by the thwack of wood against metal and she had lost track of Nate’s arrows altogether. Numerous nicks and cuts dripped blood, sapping her energy and a shield bash sent numbing vibrations through her arm, almost causing her to drop her dagger from a nerveless hand. A wave of rejuvenating energy washed over her, putting strength in her limbs and feeling back in her hands but she had no time to acknowledge Josef’ familiar touch as she pushed on through the ever growing numbers. Her mind raced as she tried to take in details that might give meaning to the encounter but even with mind and body revitalised nothing made sense but that their intention was to wipe them out completely, their shouts of ‘Kill the Wardens’ coming from all sides.

There was a shrill cry behind her, followed by a hoarse ‘Beth!’ shouted from two throats but Rhiannon didn’t dare let herself be distracted, concentrating on killing or disabling as many as she could, hoping Josef had enough mana left to heal whatever had caused the scream, or if not, that Bethany’s death would be quick and merciful. She was almost to the other side of the pass when the long, low call of a horn came and her heart dropped. They could not stand against the enemies besetting them now, if more came they would be completely overrun and the foe had shown no sign of interest in taking prisoners. Her jaw clenched, Rhiannon sent a prayer and a promise to Andraste and the Maker, whoever these bastards were, she would take as many of them as she could to the Void with her. She pushed away the thought of Alistair waiting in vain for her to come home, her tired body forcing out more swings and thrusts and parries. She barely felt the arrow that pierced her leg as a shadow took shape over her shoulder and a dagger slipped beneath her ribs and into her kidney. With the last strength remaining she spun and took the head off the hooded figure behind her before she fell to the ground, hearing once again the call of the horn before everything went black.

\------

The first thing she felt was warmth, waves of gentle heat flowing through her body, washing away the last vestiges of aches and pains barely remembered. The familiar sense of Josef’s magic made her feel safe and helped clear her mind. Two of them, at least, were still alive and when she focused on the voices murmuring somewhere off to the left she thought she could hear Nathaniel. But try as she might she could hear no clue about Bethany’s fate. She opened her eyes to the welcome sight of Josef smiling down at her while his hands floated a few inches above the hole in her side. She smiled back, searching his face for any sign of the grief or strain that would be present if Beth was dead, so glad at its lack that she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down into a fierce, passionate kiss.

For a few short moments he reciprocated, mouth gliding over hers, opening to allow her tongue to flick in and caress his, the hand he had put out of stop him falling on top of her becoming tangled in her hair as he took control and directed their movements, but all too quickly he seemed to remember where they were, pulling away to drop a sweet and irritatingly avuncular kiss on her forehead and saying, “You’re fine, Reina. Everyone is fine, we’re all here.” He straightened out of her line of sight and she decided to pay attention to where ‘here’ actually was.

They were in the Deep Roads, the characteristic dwarven architecture reaching up to a vaulted ceiling high above. This area was not overcome with the Blight, the walls held only faint smears of black and the distinctive smell was faint; better yet as she pushed her senses outwards she could feel no darkspawn nearby. What she did feel was the presence of a large group of Grey Wardens.

There were about twenty of them, and they appeared to be in a warden outpost, cots and trunks and a deep fire pit giving an impression of semi-permanence. There were humans, elves and even two dwarves and a fairly even mix of male and female, bringing to mind the memory of Alistair commenting on the lack of female wardens and making her smile. A few were watching her, some warily, some returning the faint smile, while others bustled about engaged in various chores. The smell of stew reminded her she was famished, the usual result of intensive healing, and she realised when Josef handed her a waterskin that her mouth was as dry as a bone. As she sat up to drink, she saw Nate and Beth making their way over from the firepit. Rhiannon looked Beth over carefully but there was no sign of whatever had caused her to scream, no obvious damage to her armour or her self and the wave of relief made her dizzy enough to shove the waterskin back at Josef and clutch the edge of the cot before pushing herself up and into Bethany’s arms, pulling the other woman into a kiss deeper than the one she had shared with Josef, hands roaming up her arms and into her hair then back down to gently hold her jaw, fingers lightly rubbing the curve up to her delicate ears and back down; the touch, the scent, the taste of her a reassurance that the beautiful mage was real and alive. Bethany clutched back at her, needing that same reassurance, the same promise that Rhiannon was alive and whole, tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she returned the kiss feverishly, the pair lost in each other until a sarcastic comment pierced their bubble.

“Typical, carry the brat all the way here and she’s too busy shoving her tongue down my mate’s throat to say as much as a ‘Thank you’.” Rhiannon broke away from Bethany’s embrace to grab Nate into a bear hug and bury her face into her chest. They stood like that for a minute before Nate gently disentangled her, saying, “Hey, Pup, it’s ok. You’re fine, we’re fine.” Almost the same words, but somehow it meant more from Nate than from Josef, a lifetime of trust and care immediately settling something in her. Rhiannon took a deep breath and a step back so she could see all three of them.

“Beth, I heard you scream, I thought…” She was stopped by the chuckles from the two men and the blush spreading across Bethany’s face.

“I tripped,” she muttered, and all Rhiannon could do was stare in disbelief as the two fools beside them continued to giggle. Bethany’s blush grew brighter and spread down her neck, disappearing under her armour as she cleared her throat and said again, “I tripped. My footing was wrong and my staff too low and I caught my ankle and…” As she trailed off, Rhiannon began to grin.

“You tripped over your own staff, in the middle of a battle?” It was funny because they had survived, in fact it was bloody hilarious, the image of the graceful Bethany tripping over her own feet, Rhiannon couldn’t help but join the men in their quiet laughter, at least until an unfamiliar man came up to the group and frowned at them.

“Good job she did trip,” he said, with the heavy accent that betrayed him as a Nevarran, if the dark hair, pale skin and sharp bone structure didn’t already give it away. “One of their damn shadows appeared behind her as she fell, she’d have died from his blades if she’d been standing. As it was, Kern downed him before she could stand back up.” He gestured to a blond man who looked almost a stereotype of an Ander and carried a longbow slung across his back. Then he held out his hand to Rhiannon. “Warden-Commander Cousland, I am Oskar Mazur, Warden-Lieutenant out of Perendale.” 

Rhiannon allowed him to firmly shake her hand, slightly bemused by his forthright approach and the use of her maiden name. Of course, among the Grey Wardens there was no such thing as marriage; families, birthrights and all such were abandoned in complete submission to the Order, but it was years since anyone had referred to her as anything other than Theirin and the name brought back the uncertainty of the early days in Amaranthine, when she had clutched at straws and tried to pretend she wasn’t just making everything up as she went along. Inwardly amused at the feeling, she pushed it down deep, showing no hesitation in shaking his hand back just as firmly and acknowledging his introduction with a slight bow.

“Warden Mazur, I thank you for your well-timed arrival. When I heard the horns I was sure we were done for.” 

He nodded as he released her hand. “You would have been. We’ve been chasing these Venatori bastards for weeks and no matter how many we kill, more keep appearing, like rats. Even four such impressive fighters are no match for fifty, and of course they have their own blasted mages. Fucking ‘Vints.” He spat on the ground.

“‘Vints? Venatori?” She asked. “Why are a group of Tevinters roaming Nevarra attacking Grey Wardens, and calling themselves ‘Hunters’?” She barely recognised the word, Ancient Tevene was a language she had only lightly touched on and only because the scrolls they had unearthed in Haven had been written in it and she had asked Sister Justine for permission to see them before they were sent to the Divine Archives in Val Royeaux.

“There are pockets of the bastards all over, most of them heading east…”

“Towards Ferelden?” she interrupted.

“Seems to be the Dales, mostly. Old elven ruins and such. The civil war probably helps them hide what they’re doing from the fucking Orlesians.”

She relaxed slightly, not bothering to feel guilty at wishing the invaders on the Orlesians. As long as they did not threaten her country, Celene was welcome to them. “So why are you involved? Nevarra and Orlais police their own.” Her tone was harsh, she had spent too much time and effort keeping the Wardens strictly out of Ferelden’s politics to have sympathy for interference in other countries.

Mazur snorted. “Says the Warden-Queen.” He held up his hands at her glare and Nathaniel’s sharp ‘hey’. “Apologies, Commander. We are involved because not all of the ‘Vints went east. There’s an army of them besieging Weisshaupt, conjuring demons, herding the darkspawn into the tunnels below the fortress trying to find a way in. They barely got a message out, with two of your own no less, a boy barely Joined and a civilian, an Antivan elf with tattoos. They’re spreading the word to wipe these bastards out, heading to Cumberland last I heard and then on to the Marches, since the boy told us there’s no wardens left in Ferelden and no one knows where Clarel’s hiding her lot.”

It was good to hear Martin and Zevran had not only made it through but apparently made it back out, but the news the Weisshaupt was under attack from these mysterious Venatori was worrying to say the least. No wonder there had been no response to the messages. “How long has the siege been going on?” she asked.

“Almost three months now, but there’s been something going on with Weisshaupt for longer than that. They have never been communicative but about five years ago we stopped hearing from them entirely.” She wondered at how talkative the man was, but if he was the ranking warden here and Weisshaupt was such a problem it was probably a relief to have a Commander to report to, so she waved him to follow her towards the fire and the smell of stew, her companions falling in behind her as they collected steaming bowls of what she tried to convince herself was not deepstalker before the five of them sat on the stone floor and she nodded for the Lieutenant to continue.

He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “There was a missive, from the First Warden, sent almost six months ago now. No warden to come to Weisshaupt. No warden to get involved with the Divine’s Conclave - not that we intended to - and lastly, to wipe out any Venatori we come across. We hadn’t even heard of them. Then your boys tell me they’re camped out on top of Weisshaupt itself. There have also been rumours that a dragon has been seen flying above the fortress, but we haven’t been able to track that one down.” He shrugged and she smiled in sympathy at the vagaries of gossip while her mind raced at the implications of what she had heard. The dragon she dismissed out of hand, she had killed two high dragons with only a few people fighting, a fortress of Grey Wardens would have no trouble dealing with one, and there were no great dragons left. But Weisshaupt was under siege from above and below the ground, it seemed, and yet Weisshaupt was where she had to go. Josef, Nathaniel and Bethany had all told her the Calling had eased as they moved away from Orlais, proving once and for all that it was false, a manipulation by one such as the darkspawn Josef had helped kill in Kirkwall. It had been a relief to watch the strain fade as the song faded from their minds, to see them relax as it disappeared completely only a few miles over the border. It was almost a comfort to her to know that the singing that still echoed in her head day and night was the real thing and not a phantasm or a trick. If they failed in their mission, the other three still had time. They could live and love. She had letters hidden in her bags that they could deliver for her themselves. She had no intention of going quietly, but if her time had come there was still hope that Josef could find a cure, still time for Alistair to have the happy ever after she was desperate to give him. In the meantime, there were darkspawn to fight, if she hoped to get through to Weisshaupt to find these amulets of Fiona’s.

She stood, holding the bowl to return it to the cook fire where it would be scoured with sand, clean water being too precious to use for washing dishes down here. She looked down at Mazur as she put the full force of command behind her words. “You will continue the mission the First Warden has given you. But I need a guide, someone who knows the roads to Weisshaupt from here. I assume you have someone suitable?”

“No warden is to go to Weisshaupt, Commander,” he blustered. “That was very clear and confirmed by your own men.”

“And yet, to Weisshaupt I will go. I have a mission of my own and what I seek may well be in that fortress. If you wish, the guide may return once we are close enough to make our own way but I will not waste time fighting through an army and it’s outliers if I can get closer through the Roads. If the First Warden complains you may say I overruled, bullied and harassed you. Of course that will be because it will be true, unless you do what I want now.”

“You will anyway,” Nate grumbled from the other side of the fire. “Only two men have ever faced her down and neither is here.”

“If you think Alistair is one, you must have lost your mind,” quipped Josef, smirking.

“Hah,” Nate scoffed. “Alistair never faced down a woman in his life, especially not that one. Fergus and Zevran, obviously.”

“Zevran?” It was Bethany’s turn to join in now and Rhiannon watched with amusement as they ignored both her and Mazur in favour of their mockery. It would distract the Lieutenant, she knew, and make it easier to get her own way, which Rhiannon was very much in favour of, as often as possible. The mage continued, “When has Zev ever refused her anything?”

“He refused to let her help him with the Crows who turned up in Amaranthine,” said Nate.

“He screamed blue murder at her for hours when we got back from Kal Hirol,” added Josef, grinning at the memory of Zevran’s face when they returned to the Vigil, dirty, half starved and bringing Sigrun with them. Alistair had charged Zev with protecting his Queen and she had disappeared for three weeks with not a word. After that she had allowed him to follow her, even to join their missions to hunt down the Architect and the Mother, although he had never asked to undertake The Joining and she would never have allowed it.

“He tied her to her bed and took the key to her chamber with him when she tried to follow him in his hunt for the nobles who were plotting against her.” Nathaniel’s eyes danced as he looked over at her.

“He never tied me to the bed.” Rhiannon laughed. “He locked both doors and the windows and broke the locks so it took two days to get them open. By which time he was back and a number of my nobles were found, dead from what appeared to be a darkspawn attack. And you’re wrong about Alistair, he’s far more assertive behind closed doors.” Her three reprobates groaned at her suggestive tone and she turned back to Mazur. “Oskar,” she said, smiling whimsically down at him. “I need a guide. I am ordering you, as Commander of the Grey, to assign one of your people to me. I will do my best to make sure they come back to you in one piece.” 

He frowned back at her then abruptly stood. “Fuck this,” he said, then looked around him speculatively. His eyes landed on two warriors sitting talking together and he shouted, “Karis, Lars, report.” 

As they walked across the camp, Rhiannon assessed them. Both were dwarves, one male, one female. The male was broad and stocky, with bright red hair that reminded her of Oghren although he was significantly cleaner and his beard was shaped and trimmed. Another reminder of the drunkard was the massive double-headed axe he carried slung across his back. The female was lithe and pretty, her blonde hair braided and coiled around her head, glinting like the sun as she moved past the fire. She had been sharpening a blade when Mazur called them and she carried it loosely in her hand, a falcata with a razor sharp edge, its hilt twin to the one she could see peeking out from her hip. An axeman and a dual wielder who used swords rather than the heavy daggers she carried, either would be a valuable addition to their group. So she plastered a welcoming smile on her face and bowed slightly to them.

Mazur looked them both over. “You’ll be leading the Commander and her people to Weisshaupt.” 

Rhiannon frowned at him. “One guide is sufficient, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t deprive you of fighters at such a time.”

He grunted in response. “Two’s better when you travel the Deep Roads. Besides, these two are a pain in the ass if you split them up, but they grew up in Kal Sharok and spent the first ten years or so after their Joining in Weisshaupt.” He nodded at the woman, saying, “Karis is an expert in traps, sniffing them out, disarming them, laying them.” His gaze shifted to the man. “Lars has the clearest sense of the ‘spawn I’ve ever heard of, can feel them coming for miles. Plus, he likes to blow things up if he can’t chop them up and he makes a decent deepstalker stew. Not as good as Erik over there but you won’t starve.” He looked directly at Rhiannon now, as if daring her to contradict him. “They’ll get you to Weisshaupt. If they can’t then it can’t be done. And I want them back in one piece when you’re finished with them.” He turned his attention back to the dwarves. “Get your packs, bed down beside these four, get to know them.” Finally, he turned back to Rhiannon. “Commander, a word, if you don’t mind.” She nodded and followed him over to an empty corner of the camp. She could easily see her friends and they could see her, but no one could hear what they said.

“You haven’t told them it hasn’t gone away, have you?” She glared up at the man who only grimaced at her. “I’ve seen it often enough to know the signs. It’ll call the ‘spawn to you quicker, make you more distracted. If I send the Twins with you, there’s more chance you’ll get where you’re going. I don’t know what you’re looking for when you get there, but be careful it doesn’t eat up what time you have left. You don’t want them to see what happens if you put it off, and you don’t want to run out of time to say goodbye.”

Her instinct was to tell him to mind his business but she knew he was only telling the truth, so she smiled and thanked him for his concern and went to join her friends and get to know their new companions.

They left the next morning and Rhiannon never saw Oskar Mazur again, though she heard he eventually became Commander of Nevarra. Only a day later, the earthquakes started.


	19. Forward and Back

The journey to Kal Sharok was uneventful, by Grey Warden standards at least. There were encounters with darkspawn, deepstalkers and giant spiders, the usual inhabitants of the Deep Roads, and Rhiannon was glad for the addition of the two warriors. Lars was a solid axeman, laying about himself with sure, confined strokes, while Karis and Rhiannon darted about him, focusing on the flanks, and the other three rained down death from above. There were minor injuries but nothing more than any of them had received in the past and they walked into the dwarven city fatigued but encouraged by their swift progress.

Like Orzammar, Kal Sharok was built in levels around the Commons marketplace and the Proving Grounds, but where each level in the eastern city was rigidly segregated, here the castes mingled freely, though the lower levels were still the haunts of the poorest while the nobility lived in the heights of the Diamond Quarter. In Orzammar Grey Wardens were expected to report to the Shaperate, as Queen she and her companions would be fêted and surrounded by pomp and circumstance but instead the twins took them directly to a moderately prosperous house where their mother greeted the wardens as friends of her children, showing them to comfortable rooms where they could refresh themselves before dinner.

"I didn't notice any casteless in the Commons," remarked Nathaniel as they tucked into a delicious meal of roasted nug and greens that had no doubt been traded from the surface.

"There are no casteless in the city," Lars said. "At the end of the First Blight those that survived were adopted into their chosen castes as a reward for their service. Criminals are banished to the Deep Roads, men and women fed potions to make them sterile. Some of the treasure hunters we met would have been Banished."

"Sterility potions are notoriously unreliable, far more so than contraceptives.” Josef pointed out, obviously fascinated by the concept.

“Not if they’re made with spider venom.” replied Karis. “But the guards do a sweep of the nearest thaigs once a year. Any woman with child is brought back and incarcerated ‘til she births, any child found is brought to the Shaperate to be adopted.”

“And the women who give birth?” asked Bethany.

“Sent back to the Roads.” Lars said, his face grim and his tone final. “No child bears the shame of his parents. But the Banished are owed nothing. It’s not a punishment given lightly.”

The conversation moved on to the journey to Weisshaupt, which would take about two weeks, as long as the darkspawn remained infrequent and there hadn’t been too much damage from the quakes. The gossipmongers in the Commons had nothing to say about the cause of the earthquakes as yet, but word of the siege of Weisshaupt had spread. The fortress still stood, but it was said that more Venatori appeared every day and it would only be a matter of time before the Warden stronghold fell. There was speculation everywhere about what the ‘Vints were up to, but nothing Rhiannon hadn’t heard before and nothing that would change her mind about their destination. The Commander had requested permission to access the Memories in her search for anything related to a cure. She also looked for maps of the Deep Roads under Weisshaupt, but the few that remained were ancient and at least some of the Roads they showed were completely blocked, according to the twins. She had no reason to doubt them, or Mazur for choosing them, but it would have been nice to have the added security. The longer she strayed from her home, husband and duties, the more Rhiannon felt her certainty slipping through her fingers, as if she were grasping at false hope while her country was at war. She consoled herself with the thought that Ferelden was in far safer hands than hers and with more frequent sips from her flask. She had topped it up before they left, then again in Val Chevin with Orlesian brandy, since Antivan was in short supply. Now it contained the dregs of her own mix and the brandy, topped up with some rotgut she had bought in the Commons one evening. She was careful, never taking enough to be noticeable, aware that Josef, at least, monitored every sip. But she was always cold, especially at night in her lonely bed, and a few sips warmed her body and dulled the endless song in her head long enough to ease her into sleep, a few more helped her wake in the morning to face another day of endless, fruitless searching.

It only took a few days to realise that Kal Sharok contained nothing useful for their quest, so they rose early one morning, made their farewells to their hostess and made for the entrance to the Deep Roads. Maker willing, they would only be five days to Weisshaupt and what answers might lie hidden within its walls. The group had barely crossed the Commons when Bethany stopped and turned to a pair of dwarves standing by a weaponry stall.

“What did you say?” she asked. They looked at her suspiciously, one obviously the stall vendor, the other bearing a facial tattoo with certain additions Rhiannon knew meant a member of the Carta. Bethany spoke again, more insistently. “You mentioned Ferelden. What were you saying?”

Neither looked inclined to reply, until Karis stepped forward, fingers subtly flicking into a Carta recognition signal. At the sight of her the tattooed dwarf relaxed and the vendor grunted and moved to speak to a customer at the far end of the stall.

“Karis, Lars,” he nodded to the twins, “Didn’t know you were back.”

“Flying visit,” Lars said, looking completely at ease in spite of the glare sent his way. “Warden business, you know how it is. I’m sure Ma would be happy to see you, Kairo, why don’t you drop in, give her your regards.”

“Lars,” Karis growled, “Behave.” She turned to Kairo. “We’re just passing through, heading back into the Deep Roads right now, actually. But this lot are from Ferelden, so if there’s news from there, we’d like to hear it.” She pulled a few gold coins from her pouch. “Got to be worth the price of an ale or two?”

Kairo looked at the gold she held out then grabbed it, shoving it into a belt pouch before eyeing up the rest of them as if wondering if there might be more where that came from. Evidently the sight of six Grey Wardens didn’t inspire him to further extortion because he just hissed between his teeth and looked over to Bethany.

“You heard of the Divine Conclave? The one between the mages and templars?” They nodded and he looked even more sour. “Well someone took it out. Big style. Blew the top off that mountain and opened a massive rip in the sky with demons pouring out.” Rhiannon felt the blood drain from her face, saw Beth lean against Nate while Josef’s knuckles were white on his staff. “Took out some of our top people too, bigwigs there to keep an eye on the players in the lyrium game. Those earthquakes a few weeks ago, that was it.”

“Maker,” Rhiannon whispered, feeling as if her legs would give out under her. “Did no one survive?” Demons pouring from the sky, the Divine… Leliana! Josef caught her as she began to fall, holding her up and holding her flask to her lips, helping her gulp down the fiery brew.

Kairo looked at them with sympathy. “Aye, that’s how we all feel. The whole world’s in mourning right now. There was talk of a survivor. Some mage the rumours say was handed out of the Fade by your Andraste. Whatever the truth, the Breach is still there, but it’s not growing any more, and there’s rumours of smaller rips all over Ferelden and Orlais. Mostly for a few leagues around where that temple used to be but appearing further out every day. Word is to stay away for now, ‘til the powers that be see what way the Stone is turning. If you’ve sense, you’ll do the same.” He looked them over once more before turning to Karis as if to say something. He hesitated, shook his head and wandered off in the direction of the tavern.

“What do we do?” whispered Bethany, clinging to Nathaniel as they both looked to their Commander for directions. Rhiannon felt the weight of their stares, knew Josef was also looking to her, although his arms stayed tight around her, his chin resting gently on her head. Somehow, they had both ended up kneeling on the ground, though she had no recollection of how they got there. The song seemed louder than ever in her head and her flask was almost empty, what she hadn’t knocked back had dribbled out the side as it lay on the ground beside her.

“Lars, Karis?” Josef spoke from somewhere above her. “Can we head back to your mother’s house?” They must have responded, although she didn’t hear them, but suddenly she was being hoisted into strong arms and carried like a baby to the house they had left less than an hour earlier. She barely knew it when Josef laid her gently on a couch, her mind still frozen in disbelief. The Conclave was gone, the Divine was gone. Fiona, a woman she had barely met but suspected was far more than just a stranger; the representatives Alistair had sent to observe the Conclave; Leliana. There was no hope that her friend had not been at the Divine’s side, no hope that she might have survived, that the rumoured mage might really be a redheaded rogue. And demons all over Ferelden. They were only just beginning to recover properly after the Blight, this was the first year the Crown had not had to beg yet more loans from the Free Marches, the first year more taxes had gone into rebuilding than interest repayments. All gone under another ravening horde, this one more horrific than the war or even the darkspawn. Her mind threw up scenes from the Circle Tower, body parts strewn about, evil beyond belief carried out in room after room. It had been so far beyond her ability to cope with that even now she knew the worst images were still hiding, waiting for her nightmares. Panic rose up, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst and her chest felt like rocks were crushing her, leaving her unable to breathe. She barely tasted the potion Josef held to her mouth, gulping it down automatically, feeling the burn cut through the gnawing hole in her heart for a moment before disappearing. Somewhere above her conversations were happening but darkness was calling and she followed it down into oblivion.

\------

"Fuck!" Josef suddenly pulled Rhiannon up into a sitting position. “Beth, I need a purge.” He had assumed she was asleep, stress and the mild sedative potion working on her overwhelmed body, but he’d casually delved her anyway, a habit when giving any sedative, even to someone with a warden’s constitution. But for some reason her heart rate and breathing had slowed and her blood pressure was dropping. A quick scan gave him the answer, the alcohol level in her blood was far higher than the couple of gulps he had given her would cause. “Nate, I need warmed blankets and something to make her throw up. Give me that fucking flask.”

Bethany was already pulsing magic into Rhiannon’s unconscious body, trying to clear the poisonous mix of alcohol and sedative while Josef focused on keeping her heart and lungs moving. He took a sip of what was left in the woman’s flask and spat it back out. “That’s not her usual combo.”

“She added Orlesian brandy, there wasn’t any Antivan in Val Chevin.” Bethany said, keeping her voice and movements under control, well trained in keeping calm while healing, no matter the patient or the situation.

“That’s not all that’s in there,” Josef said, darkly. “She’s been topping up. And judging by the state of her blood, she’s been doing it for a while." He started stimulating her hindbrain, trying to persuade it to keep her breathing on its own so he could concentrate on the heartbeat that was faltering, the electrical activity too weak and irregular. He was glad when Nate ran back in carrying about twenty blankets and a jug that he thrust at the mage.

"Salt water," he said. "First thing that came to hand." 

Josef shook his head. "I can't make her sick now, her heart won't take it."

"What in the Void is going on?" Nate's frustration was clear but he kept working, wrapping blankets around both Josef and Rhiannon then putting the jug to the side.

"There's a shitload of alcohol in her blood." Beth replied. "The potion tipped her over and her body can't cope." She looked over at Josef. "There's a lot of damage, not just from the liquor, it's making it hard to cleanse her. I think it's the taint."

Josef looked down at the woman in his arms and jumped to his own conclusions. "Fuck! Did she ever come straight out and say the Calling was gone?"

The other two wardens looked at him with horror as Josef cursed Rhiannon for hiding from him, not just that the drinking was worse than he realised, but that she was still hearing that song inside her head. He couldn't think of any other reason for things to escalate so much. He shook his head and put it aside. Causes could be dealt with later, when she survived and was well enough to be screamed at.

"Beth, I need you to take over maintaining her heart and lungs, keep the air going to her brain." Once he was certain his fellow mage had both rhythms under control he switched his focus to the rest of her body. Bethany was a good healer, but she didn't have his knowledge or experience. For the first time he cursed his separation from Justice, feeling his mana depleting and waved to Nathaniel for the lyrium potions in his pack. Swallowing the bitter draught he focused on repairing the organs that would do most of the filtering for him, healing the scarred liver and boosting the struggling kidneys. He pushed energy into her adrenal glands, forcing them to give out infrequent jolts of their chemicals to help Beth with Reina's heart and blood pressure then shifted his attention to her pancreas, triggering hormones that would break down her reserves to feed the revitalised organs. Slowly he felt the poisons start to shift, felt her body coming back into some kind of equilibrium.

"It's working," whispered Beth. "Her heart's getting stronger."

Josef downed another lyrium potion, shoving one at Bethany as he did so. "Don't let go, not yet. Nate…" He trailed off as he realised the archer was no longer in the room.

"He's gone to get food and drinks for us." Bethany said and Josef smiled gratefully at her. That was what he was going to ask but apparently he'd been anticipated. Bethany continued, "I asked him to bring water for Rhi and to ask Mistress Balkis for broth.”

“She won’t be able to take them, not until she’s stable, but it was a good thought.” He hesitated, trying to assess Rhiannon’s immediate needs against the exhaustion in his bones and echoed on Bethany’s face. The immediate need was to keep her heart and lungs going, she needed time for her body to clear the toxins. He squeezed a little more out of the adrenal glands and slipped in to support Bethany before gently pushing her power out of Rhiannon’s body. When she tried to protest he told her, “I need you to rest. I can keep this going for a few more hours. You sleep and then you can take over so I can sleep.” He looked down at his unresponsive patient. “We’re not going anywhere until she can travel.” As Bethany left, shutting the door gently behind her, he whispered in Rhiannon’s ear, “Once you’re awake, we will be talking about this, love. I won’t lose you again. Not to the Calling and certainly not to the fucking flask.” He had had enough. Alistair be damned, he loved the woman in his arms and he would make her his, if she would have him. They would find a cure at Weisshaupt and then they would be free to choose their path and politics and nobles and inconvenient marriages and wars and even demons could all go fuck themselves. Reina would know that he was hers, body and soul, forever.

\------

He carried her up to the bed and laid her in it, using a constant trickle of magic to encourage her body to heal itself, triggering negative feedback loops when they faltered, trying to break down some of the Blighted cells where he could. How effective it would be, he had no idea, there were no visual signs of Blight, there had been no apparent diminution of her faculties; they could have only weeks left or still have years. She had survived the one thing that was supposed to be unsurvivable, killing an archdemon, perhaps that was why the taint was already taking over? He managed to force down some food and a mug of small ale, wishing desperately for water or even cider instead, before settling into a meditative state that would let him continue healing Rhiannon while giving him some rest also.

When Bethany appeared some four hours later, he was almost out of mana, the last lyrium potion in the room long gone and he could barely keep awake. He sat on a chair bent over the bed, with his head resting on his forearms beside the still sleeping queen. He hadn’t heard the door open but when Bethany touched him lightly on the shoulder he came to with a jerk, looking up at her through stinging, sandy eyes and noting the damp hair, clean clothes and the refreshed look on her face with something that might have been jealousy, if he could have summoned the energy. He felt Bethany’s magic slip in beside his and gently, if not quite smoothly, take over. It was a technique only used often by healers, to merge and release ones magic, used for long cases like this one. Few other mages ever learned it and Bethany was still new to it, so the transition was jarring enough to make him a bit more awake. He managed to stagger to the room next door where he splashed water on his face then collapsed onto the bed, barely staying awake long enough to kick his boots off.

He woke exactly four hours later. He had always been able to tell himself when to wake, no matter how exhausted he was. Not for the first time, he cursed the ability, wishing he could have slept just a little longer, but instead he dragged himself off the bed, stripped and washed with the remaining water in the ewer and threw on a clean tunic and leggings. His legs still felt like jelly and his stomach was starting to growl, too used to regular meals since leaving Kirkwall, even with the travelling they had done lately. He made it through to Rhiannon’s room and thought that he could have cried when he saw the tray of food sitting waiting for him. Bethany smiled as he shoved a handful of roast nug in his mouth. 

“Take your time,” she said. "She's pretty stable and actually sleeping now." Sure enough, Rhiannon's breathing was even, her colour a soft rose instead of waxy grey. Relieved, he started chewing a bit more slowly as he sat beside Bethany. She took his hand and squeezed it, leaning her head on his shoulder in exhaustion. 

"Has she woken yet?" He asked quietly.

"Not yet. She seems to start waking and it knocks everything off again so I decided to keep her under for now." She sounded unsure and he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"That's exactly the right thing to do." Bethany relaxed against him as he confirmed her instincts and he eased his magic in beside hers, letting some flow into her before he gently pushed her from the link.

"You didn't have to do that." Sometimes he forgot she was a Hawke, her soft-spoken ways so different from her sister, but the look she levelled at him was pure Mari, the mixture of exasperation and over-protectiveness that could easily tip into anger. "Save your energy for yourself, and her." She tipped her head at Rhiannon before loading a plate with food and dumping it beside him. "You need it more than I do." With that she flounced out of the room, still taking care not to slam the door and Josef grinned. Marian would have slammed it but Bethany would never disturb a patient. The grin faded as he looked back at Rhiannon, absently checking the flow between them before piling more meat on a slice of the bread and butter Bethany had loaded onto the plate. As Beth said, Rhiannon was stable, but not ready to wake up yet, and it only took a small trickle of magic to keep things steady while her body did the work itself. While he waited he ate and tried to plan what he would say when she woke up.

He and Bethany swapped places regularly over the next day or so, with Nathaniel bringing them food and drink and waiting with warm arms for whichever of them needed help to sleep. Thankfully, Rhiannon woke briefly in the small hours of the morning. She was awake long enough for Bethany to coax her into drinking some broth before she fell asleep again. The pattern continued every few hours, a brief waking followed by another sleep, but each time she was a little more awake, a little more coherent, and the two healers were happy with her progress, which was enough to satisfy Nathaniel and their hostess.

Karis and Lars had spent the time trying to find any more information about the hole in the sky and the demons pouring into Thedas through it, but there was little else to hear. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had exploded, a mage was apparently the only survivor and, rather than being held as the obvious suspect, was being lauded as a religious icon heading a new Inquisition which the Chantry would use to put the mages and the templars back in their places. It was very little more than they had already known and was surrounded by huge amounts of gossip and speculation. Through Kairo, who turned out to be the twins father as well as a crook and a gambler, they acquired a supply of high quality lyrium potions, more than enough to get them to Weisshaupt. All they needed was their leader to be well enough to fight through the Deep Roads with them.

On the second morning after her accidental overdose Rhiannon could sit up and eat a bowl of porridge rather than having broth poured down her throat. Josef, Nathaniel and Bethany sat around her, Beth cross legged on the bed beside her while the men sat in chairs pulled as close as they could get. They ate in silence, content to simply be near each other, until Rhiannon pushed her empty plate away and looked up at them.

“We need to go back,” she said. The other three looked at her, completely unsurprised by her statement and the lack of resistance somehow left her on the wrong foot. “I mean, we can’t just ignore this. Ferelden needs us.” Still there was no argument, no real response and the arguments she had tried to work on during her waking moments just vanished from her head as she was faced by nothing but silence.

Finally, Josef spoke. “If we travel directly across Orlais, we can be at Redcliffe in about six weeks.”

Nathaniel added, “We don’t need to stop near Halamshiral and heading back the way we probably won’t need much by way of supplies, especially if we follow the Highway.”

“Mmm, real beds with clean sheets, yes please,” said Bethany, thinking of the inns along the highway.

“We can’t really stay in inns and taverns, sweet.” Nathaniel pointed out gently. “When Rhi turns, we’ll need to kill her. It’s hard to dispose of a body when the Imperial Guard do spot checks. But if we go cross country there will be plenty of places to dig a grave.”

Bethany nodded, calmly, while Rhiannon gaped at them. Josef stood to collect the bowls and place them on the sideboard, bringing over the jug to fill each glass with water before leaning over to adjust Rhiannon’s pillows behind her, dropping an absent kiss on her cheek as he did so.

“Maybe Rhiannon would prefer just to go into the Deep Roads from here? Why would she come back with us now?” He looked directly at the stunned woman and asked, “Did you want us to take anything back to Alistair, love? A token, or a message?”

Finally the Commander found her voice. “You three are the most passive-aggressive bastards I’ve ever met. What the fuck?”

“Well there doesn’t seem to be much point in you heading back with us if we’re going to wake up one morning with you trying to eat our faces.” Nathaniel said while Bethany interjected, “And not in the good way.” Nate groaned, looking slightly uncomfortable as he always did when Beth or Josef were flirting with Rhi. He didn’t quite want to give them a shovel talk, especially since he didn’t want a beating from his Commander, but part of him would never forget the skinny kid running along behind him and Fergus, begging them to teach her how to ride and shoot and fight. The thought of that eager child becoming what Adria had, of having to kill his little sister as she turned into a ghoul before his eyes, was something that had given him nightmares since he realised that Rhiannon’s life expectancy would be far less than his, but the reality of it was overwhelming. Only their shared decision on how to approach her was keeping him together right now, when Beth had broken the news he had cried for the first time since his mother had died, cradled in his mate’s arms like a baby.

Rhiannon glared at them. “How did you know?” She didn’t ask what they knew, there was no point.

“The taint was interfering with us healing you.” Josef explained. “And we wouldn’t have needed to heal you if your blood wasn’t saturated with alcohol.” He didn’t miss the way her hands were trembling on the coverlet and that was another issue they would need to deal with before they could go anywhere because they had stripped every bit of alcohol out of her system and there would be consequences to that. He filed it away for further thought and took one of the shaking hands in his, stroking it lightly as he said, “You should have told us, Reina.”

She sunk into the bed, her face impassive. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. We should have been able to get to Weisshaupt with time to spare. You’re right, I can’t go back to Ferelden, I might not make it. You have to go. I’ll give you a letter for Alistair.” His heart clenched at her hopeless tone and he opened his mouth to say something reassuring, something loving, but Bethany got there first.

“Fuck that!” All three of them jumped, looking at the quiet mage.

“Beth…” Nate warned, giving Rhiannon a worried glance.

“Don’t ‘Beth’ me, Nathaniel Howe.” She looked over at Rhiannon. “We’re continuing on to Weisshaupt, where we will find a cure.” Then she gave a grim smile. “And if you try to eat our faces on the way, we’ll give you a quick, clean death and carry on until we do have a cure.” Rhiannon began to protest but stopped when Bethany raised her hand. “What can we do about rifts in the Veil? I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She looked over at Josef who shook his head. The tears in the Blackmarsh had been superficial, not enough to let actual demons through, and they had only closed them by being drawn into the Fade itself. “I didn’t think so. And if Josef doesn’t know, I doubt you do, Rhi?” She waited for Rhiannon to shake her head then continued.

“This false Calling is something the First Warden needs to know about. Weisshaupt is under siege. You are hearing your real Calling and the only thing that might help is at Weisshaupt.” She softened slightly. “Let someone else save the world, Rhi. Save yourself this time.”

Rhiannon gave a sardonic chuckle, “I saved myself last time, remember.”

“No you didn’t,” Bethany replied. “You sold yourself into a life of slavery to your kingdom, to the Wardens, a life of nothing but other people’s needs. If you had saved yourself then you wouldn’t be having a race to see whether the Blight or the alcohol kills you first.” Rhiannon flushed at the accusations, but couldn’t deny them and Bethany leaned forward to grab the hand Josef wasn’t holding. “We love you, sweetness, so much. But, by Andraste, if you pull this bullshit on us again, I’ll kill you myself. We’re going to Weisshaupt, the four of us, if I have to tie you in a blanket and drag you behind me all the way.”

Rhiannon just stared, open-mouthed, at her, before lunging forward to pull the woman into a kiss. The two men looked on helpless, then at each other and Nate murmured, “I guess that’s sorted, then.”


	20. Weisshaupt

The battle raged below. Waves of genlocks and hurlocks, led by multiple alphas, threw themselves against the blue and silver mass, while ogres stayed behind the lines, hurling great stones that crushed wardens and darkspawn alike. Rhiannon scanned the rear lines, looking for those directing the battle. To see ogres maintaining a position, archers targeting over the front lines to reach Weisshaupt’s defenders behind, spoke of an organisation she had only seen in the self-aware darkspawn who had belonged to The Architect. She had spotted at least seven emissaries, spread across the attacking army, each taking a specific part of the battle, calling down fire and lightning and ice, like the ogres they were unconcerned with the nature of the bodies lying scattered about, as many of their own in pieces as their enemy. Finally, she saw him, a grotesquely tall darkspawn directing the battle, half shadowed by the overhang they crouched upon, accompanied by two human mages in Tevinter robes, the tips of their staves glowing with the ambient magic flowing through the massive underground canyon.

The trip had been too quiet. They had travelled through abandoned thaigs and deserted roads for days, on edge as faint echoes brought back whisperings of the battle somewhere up ahead. Only a mile beyond the last marker for Weisshaupt the road had opened up into a series of chasms that reminded Rhiannon of the Dead Trenches in the roads beyond Orzammar, lava winding its way far below, beading their brows with sweat, noise muffled and diverted by the deep channels and towering walls, the ceiling barely seen in the distance above them. The noise had been so confused they had come out almost on top of the battle before realising what it was, only luck bringing them to a high ledge looking down on chaos that made the Battle of Denerim seem insignificant.

As she watched, Rhiannon began to notice patterns of movement, oddities in the fighting. It seemed the leader of the darkspawn was not The Architect, as she had first thought, but something of a height and shape with him, one of the other Magisters Sidereal, if such still existed. It was draped in robes of Tevinter style, not the rags The Architect had once worn and her belief that this was not he was confirmed when she spotted the familiar figure far across the battlefield, standing beside a warrior wearing blue and silver. The Wardens themselves were interspersed with darkspawn who fought beside them, a hurlock emissary sending fireball after fireball at the closest ogre while a dwarven rogue flickered in and out around it, holding off any who sought to interfere, until the ogre went down, the smell of tainted flesh burning wafting directly across where the small band crouched out of sight. They were almost directly above the other Magister, they would need to make a move before it or the Venatori mages sensed the presence of her own mages, but there was no clear way through the attacking lines, and six wardens would be no match for the hundreds of darkspawn on the field. She signalled her group and they withdrew smoothly, keeping their silence until the sounds of fighting were once again a distorted, indeterminate noise behind them.

Josef rubbed the sweat from his face, looking around at his companions as they did the same. “Fuck. How do we get through that?” Rhiannon sat on the ground and started pulling out roughly scrawled maps she had copied in the Shaperate in Kal Shirok. Karis and Lars silently set up a perimeter while Bethany set wards, Josef joining her after a minute or so. Nathaniel sat beside Rhiannon and looked at the crumpled pieces of parchment.

“Lars,” Rhiannon ordered the dwarf over and as his boots appeared beside the map she was scrutinising, she pointed to a section of it that appeared to be just beyond where they had come upon the conflict. “Is there a way from here to there?”

He crouched beside her, frowning at the page as he mentally tracked the nearby paths. He pointed to a side passage about half a mile back the way they had come. “This leads to one of the main roads heading further north, about a mile or so along there should be a connecting tunnel heading this way. If it doesn’t bring us out at the other side, it’ll come out closer to Weisshaupt eventually. Probably add on half a day or so.”

Rhiannon tilted her head to look at her companions. “Lars, you’re point, get us there, as close to the fighters as you can but if we miss them, so be it. Karis and Josef, rearguard. Nate, Beth, we’re going to be keeping an eye on the side tunnels. Anything coming our way, we wipe it out.” She stood, shoving the maps carelessly into her pack, the rest shifting their positions as directed and they moved out, hoping for a way around the battlefield.

The side passage did indeed connect with one of the main roads and the next branch was where they expected it. The wardens moved silently along the narrow corridor as it twisted and turned, the echoes carrying the sounds of fighting from all directions, disorienting them and making it impossible to know if they had managed to avoid the conflict or not. There were no branches from this tunnel anyway, they would have to stay the road they were on or risk going back and losing yet more time. As a result there was nowhere to go when they turned a corner to be faced with a group of about twenty darkspawn. For a heartbeat the two sides just stared at each other, then a hurlock let out a war cry that almost knocked Lars down and the fight began.

Rhiannon hated battles. The noise was overwhelming, crashing metal that hurt ears trained to hear muffled footsteps, movement everywhere around, distracting her focus, making it impossible to keep track of her companions. Most of the ‘spawn were already wounded, no doubt running away from the Weisshaupt wardens, but there were enough of them to make it a challenging fight. All Rhiannon could do was concentrate on taking down one monster, then the next, then the next, trying to listen for any of her people shouting for help. She had no talent for overseeing these things, she couldn’t read the shifting nature of a battlefield the way Alistair could. She was a bard and a duelist, trained for the Game or for small scale engagements. During the Blight she had concentrated on hitting the flanks, taking out the rearguard and archers, relying on Alistair’s shouted instructions to support her allies when necessary; in Amaranthine, Justice or Oghren had done the same. None of those with her were really trained for that and they were less coordinated as a result. Luckily the close quarters meant the only real tactic was to keep pushing forward. She stopped when there were no more darkspawn in front of her, her muscles screaming, blood dripping from four or five shallow cuts, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

There was no time for more as a second wave appeared around another corner, far enough away that she could grab her barely used bow and take out a few of them before they got too close. More arrows flew past from Nate’s longbow, the farther reach noticeable as one punched through the throat of an emissary hiding at the back. The warriors held back, waiting for the enemy to close, while Rhiannon felt healing, rejuvenation and barrier spells flow over her, the mages husbanding their power for defence this time, their mana slower to refill. The darkspawn rushed forward, not hesitating even in the face of the storm of arrows the archers sent their way. This group had none of their own, apart from the solitary emissary Nate had killed they appeared to be grunts, their danger not in skill but in numbers. Behind them Rhiannon caught glimpses of blue and silver, the reason for their continued push, an attempt to overwhelm the smaller group and escape the wardens harrying their heels. Suddenly a wave of almost familiar magic passed over them, while a voice in the distance called, “To the side, Wardens!” Beneath them the ground shook, loose rocks falling from the ceiling above, some landing directly on top of the ‘spawn, crushing them. Rhiannon and her companions followed their orders and hugged the sides of the tunnel, crouched to keep themselves small. None bore shields but they all tucked their heads under armoured arms, leaving enough of a gap to see the enemy, ready to fight even through an earthquake if needed. It seemed the quake was the last straw, though, as the few remaining grunts simply ran past them, desperate to escape. It should have been over, but a genlock carrying a pike stumbled over fallen rocks and landed on its knees right beside Bethany. For one frozen second they stared at each other in panic, then the genlock shoved his pike at the mage as arrows and at least two fireballs hit him. He fell, a smoking husk already forgotten as Rhiannon tried to take in the image before her.

Bethany sat on the ground, looking in confusion at the length of wood emerging from her body, seemingly ignorant of the blood dripping from her mouth, except to cough up more every so often. Josef was already there, pouring magic into her while Karis did the same with healing potions. Nathaniel stood over them, jaw rippling with tension as he scanned the tunnel for another attack, training keeping him at his post while the others did their work. Lars and Rhiannon had both thrown their remaining potions to Karis, her brother mirroring Nathaniel's vigilance over than while Rhiannon turned to deal with the arriving wardens.

An elven woman in battlemage armour stomped past, heading directly for Josef and Bethany and Rhiannon was surprised to recognise Velanna, missing since the Mother's attack on Vigil's Keep. That explained the familiar touch to the magic, though she hadn't felt it for years. She turned back to the rest of the wardens. They were a mixed bunch, as wardens often were, and the clear leader was a woman with the warm colouring of Tevinter who wore the arms of a warden-lieutenant. She was watching Rhiannon warily, noting the blades at her side as well as the insignia of a warden-commander. Rhiannon spared a glance back to where Velanna had dropped to her knees beside Josef and was passing him a blue vial before facing the lieutenant and raising her fist to her chest.

"My thanks for your timely rescue," she said, formally, ignoring the fact that it was their presence that had driven the darkspawn into their tunnel. She would need all the goodwill she could garner to achieve her goals.

The woman mirrored her gesture, nodding her head slightly before speaking with a smooth, warm accent that confirmed her Tevinter origins. "Commander Cousland," she said, ignoring Rhiannon's faint grimace at being recognised. "We were not expecting anyone in this direction." She looked over at the group around Bethany, a furious glint quickly hidden when she identified Lars and Karis. 

“I need to speak to the First Warden, with some urgency.”

“Since you have those two with you,” the lieutenant said with distaste, nodding towards the twins, “Then you know the First Warden has declared Weisshaupt off limits.” She waved her hand at the carnage around them. “You see why.”

Rhiannon could hear Velanna’s footsteps behind her. The elf could be as light footed as any of her kin when she wished it but in a temper she made as much noise as she could, if only to annoy people.

“The Commander will be coming with us.” Her sharp tones hadn’t changed, the contempt with which she spoke to the other warden bringing back memories of her verbal jousting with Josef or Nathaniel, before she learned to be civil. “Her companions also, the mage would not survive the return to Kal Sharok.” As she moved past, she flashed Rhiannon a look that said she was not sure Bethany would survive to reach Weisshaupt, close as they were. Pushing down the sick feeling of guilt and worry, Rhiannon watched as the two women before her began arguing in fluent Tevene, the lieutenant assuming the Ferelden would not know the language, the elf presumably not remembering or not caring that Rhiannon did.

“Lord Vogel was clear...”

“Situations change, Lieutenant. The Architect will want to see her.” Rhiannon hid her reaction to mention of the Architect, glad she had already identified him. It appeared Velanna had tied herself to the sentient darkspawn, no doubt to be close to Seranni. Judging by the Lieutenant’s attitude as they continued to argue, Velanna was of a higher rank and the name of the First Warden was brought out to try to bolster her faltering position. Finally, Velanna hissed, “They come to Weisshaupt, Gabriella. The Augur told us, the Black Flame is coming. Well, here she is and I will present her to The Lady whether you like it or not.” The lieutenant, Gabriella, slumped slightly, then turned to call orders to her wardens, instructing them to prepare a litter for Bethany. Velanna turned to Rhiannon and raised her fist to her chest. “No questions, Commander. We need to move while the Appraiser is trying to gather his troops again. I doubt even Josef can do more for the girl right now anyway.”

It took only minutes for the group to be ready to leave. Rhiannon walked beside Bethany’s stretcher, holding Nathaniel’s hand as she watched the ghostly white face more than the tunnels ahead. The road branched a few hundred feet ahead, the right heading for the battlefield, which had finally fallen silent but for the groaning of the wounded, the left taking them entirely past it and directly to Weisshaupt. Rhiannon cursed their luck. Only another fifteen minutes and they might have avoided the skirmish entirely. Even walking at the pace of the litter bearers they reached the vast underground gates to Weisshaupt Fortress in less than an hour. Velanna spoke quietly to one of the guards, who went into the guardhouse and emerged moments later followed by a young man who tucked a piece of parchment into a satchel and took off at a run. They continued on into the lower reaches of the castle, coming to a massive dwarven lift that proceeded to raise them into the towering darkness, stopping at the entrance to an empty corridor, well lit with torches. Disembarking, they were led along numerous corridors, all on the same level, until Velanna opened a nondescript door and they all poured into a massive room.

The room was large enough to hold all of them comfortably, fifteen people, two of whom were carrying a stretcher. Velanna waved those two through a door that opened into a luxurious bedroom decorated in autumn colours, warm russets and browns and golds. One of their compatriots pulled back the covers on the bed and they carefully shifted Bethany onto it, then brought the covers up, ignoring the blood and filth sticking to her that would have to be boiled off the sheets, if it came off at all. Josef and Nathaniel were beside her almost instantly and Rhiannon wanted to go to them, to check on Bethany, but logically there was nothing she could do, so instead she turned to Velanna.

“Thank you,” she murmured. The other wardens filed out of the room until only Velanna and Gabriella remained. Lars was investigating a sideboard on which food and drink had been laid out, while Karis had disappeared into one of the other rooms, muttering about a bath. Finally, they were all but alone and her mind was clear enough to start asking questions.

She began with the Lieutenant, deliberately speaking in Tevene and watching the woman squirm. “Lieutenant Gabriella. Be assured I will make it very clear to Lord Vogel that you objected vigorously to our intrusion and were overruled. Any consequences will be on my head. You are dismissed.” She watched her leave before turning her attention back to Velanna.

“One man died and another was crippled, trying to shift the rubble that supposedly crushed you.” Rhiannon had never particularly cared that the elf had left. Velanna had always been clear that her motives were her own and although they had developed a mutual respect, they were never friends. “You could have waited until the battle was done before doing your disappearing act.”

The other woman raised one elegant eyebrow briefly. “I had barely enough mana left to get me through the ground away from that wall. I passed out as soon as I reached a safe space. When I woke, I was in one of the Architects laboratories, Seranni and Utha having found me and carried me there. I decided that my duty to your wardens was done, so I moved on, to find a new duty elsewhere.”

She didn’t miss the use of the term ‘your’ wardens. “So you became another of his experiments did you?” Honestly, she was curious. The elf seemed no different than she had almost ten years ago, but then Utha had been with the Architect more than twenty and Seranni had never been a warden.

Velanna laughed derisively. “Hardly. That way lay nothing but dead ends, even the Architect admitted he could go no further. No, we found a different purpose, Rhiannon, one that is not so far away from yours, I think. Anyway, I have business to attend to for the moment, and people to inform of your presence. Check on your own, Commander Cousland. Rest and eat. There are busy days ahead.” With that she turned and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her and though Rhiannon listened, there was no snick of a lock following.

Wearily she sighed and half collapsed into a nearby chair. Food and drink would be welcome, as would a bath, though all she really wanted right now was to know Beth would be alright and to sleep for a week. She dragged herself back up and through to the bedroom, standing back from the bed and focusing on Josef instead of Nathaniel or Beth herself.

“How is she?” She asked, quietly.

Josef looked up. He was almost as wan as Beth had been and his face was lined by the strain of healing. “Terya, one of the stretcher bearers, said she would bring more potions, there’s not much else I can do right now. I’ve managed to heal most of the internal organs and damaged muscle.” He avoided looking at Nate. “I had to remove her womb, and part of her bowel that was too damaged. Luckily you can basically stick the two ends together and if it’s healed neatly it’ll work as normal.”

“But...?” His eyes were flickering about in nervous sidelong glances, from Beth to Nate, then to Rhiannon, then back to Bethany. She needed to know the full picture. “Josef!” 

“The head was lodged in her spine. It came out cleanly enough, thank the Maker, but I don’t know how much damage was done. It was low down, it may have missed the cord completely. Once the swelling goes down...I need to wait... to see...” He trailed off, looking miserably over to Nathaniel, who sat by the bed, stroking Bethany’s limp hand.

“You mean, she might be paralysed.” Nate’s deep voice was calm and he held out his hand to Josef, pulling the man into a stooped embrace. “She would be dead if it weren’t for you - and Velanna. I’ll take alive over anything else any day.”

Josef looked down at the unconscious woman and whispered, “But will Bethany see it that way?”

Rhiannon moved across and nipped him. “Stop that. You did your best. Beth’s strong, she’ll cope with whatever comes. She’s one of us, no matter what.” Another nip at his side and then she burrowed her way under his arm, sandwiching the mage between them as she grabbed Nathaniel’s arms and squeezed the three of them together. Knowing Bethany would live was all she needed for now, the adrenaline disappearing as if someone had pulled the plug from a bath. She settled herself on the bed, curling carefully into Bethany’s sleeping form, barely aware of Josef lean form settling behind her while Nathaniel moved to the other side of the bed to lie beside his mate. There was more than enough room for the four of them in the bed and they dropped into sleep, gently arranged around their wounded mage.


End file.
